Morning Run.

A little pictogram of my attempt at shaking this funk with a morning run.  5 miles later and I think I won't scratch my own eyes out.  Successful?  Maybe.....

 Burbank Creek.

Loud today.

 This is the rock where I stop to pee.  Hello, but birthing four babies makes me have to pee when I run.  Duh.

 Foggy woods.

 Hill from Hell.  This thing goes on for a mile.  It's great coming down but hell going up.

 Coming up the hill and the sun starts peeking through.

 Almost home and there is sun!

 I felt that this photograph was a perfect depiction of my life in its current state.  Irony?  Perhaps.

The end.  Home.

There Are Days.

And this is has been one of those days.

I don't know what sets them in motion.  There probably isn't even a "Thing" that is the catalyst for these days.  All I know is they are claustrophobic.  And drowning.  And stifling.  All at the same time.

I look around and cannot figure out how to do the next thing.  There are all these people who need me to be there for them and I just don't want to.  How bad is that?!  I'm a Mom and I don't want to feed my children?  I want to block out the typical children noises that they bring into my house and sit in quiet instead.  I don't want to be present.  What I need is a break from the monotony that is my world.  How did I find joy and contentment in this same monotony that was before?

It's all so confusing.

I forget.  I cannot focus.  There is no joy.  No peace.

Just me.  Alone.  With a whole lot of responsibilities and decisions to make and no one to help me.

It's Christmas and there is no one to go shopping with me, so I just don't do it.  There is no one to tell me that my fudge is delicious, so I don't cook.  There is no one to tell me that my decorations look nice, so I don't decorate.  There is no one to snuggle in bed with and look at the lights on the Christmas tree, so I just unplug them.  No one.  No one.

That must be my motto for the coming new year.

Fear vs. Worry.

This past year has not been a very good year.  Definitely NOT ranking in the top ten best years of my life.

Let's be honesty here, shall we?  This year has been hell.  Smoking, burning, painful, stifling hell.  No way around it.

I have lived out my worst fear.  The sudden unexpectedness of Bill's death was the truest manifestation of the greatest fear in my life.  Far greater than the fear of my own death or even the death of one of our kids.  

My worst fear.  So now, I ask you, what else is there to fear?

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

There is nothing in this life that I fear anymore.  Now don't go mistaking my lack of fear for lack of worry.  I'll talk about that in a minute because I have plenty of worries.  But there is no fear.

I don't fear any one's opinion of me.  I don't fear failure or imperfection.  I don't fear looking foolish or being judged or rejected.  I am not afraid to live in the moment.  I am not afraid to be different.  I certainly am not afraid to express myself.

Life is way too short (trust me on this one) to live in fear.   How often do we let an opportunity go right on by us simply because we are too paralyzed by fear to grasp the chance to truly live?

Real quick, though, I want to explain that I still worry.  Heck, I worry about everything!  Like, how am I going to raise these kids by myself?  What's going to happen if I get sick?  What happens when the money runs out?  Do I have employable skills so I can work?  What if my car breaks down? What if I turn into a crazy-haired old lady who tromps around in her pajamas and muck boots whilst a herd of cats follows on my heels?  (Shhhh.  That one might already be kind of true and it sounds an awful lot like Eileen Dozler!  Good grief, I am Eileen!) So you see, I worry about lots of things, but I'm not frightened by those worries.  Inconvenienced is more like it.  Frustrated maybe.  Annoyed even.  But not fearful.

What does living without fear look life then?  Well I suppose it looks different for every person.  For me, there are many examples that I can come up with:  I will not hide my feelings and I will not apologize for honesty.  I will tell people that they are important to me and that I care about them.  I will not put off having friends over.  I will eat the peppermint Blizzards for dinner (or breakfast--who am I kidding).  I will learn to hunt and fly fish.  I will remove the hook from a fish's mouth and bait that damn hook by myself.  I will take a ride in the mountains and not be afraid of falling off the road. I will not be too busy to have fun.  I will not martyr myself for any one's benefit.  I will float the river with the kids next summer.  I will not hide.  I will look forward and not shield my eyes from the reality that presents itself.  

Even when I cannot see clearly.

Thanksgiving. Or Giving Thanks.

As I sit at the table in the familiar kitchen of the house where my (large) extended family has spent the past many Thanksgiving holidays celebrating together,  I am struck by how the familiar can exist in the same space as the new.  How the same old jokes and stories can coincide with the obvious hole that now is such a prominent feature in my life.  It's odd really.

Within any family, there are always additions and losses to factor into each passing year.  That's part of life.  I know that.

I just don't necessary like it.

To be honest, completely honest, I don't feel like celebrating or being thankful this year, even though I do know that I have plenty to be thankful for.  Maybe it will just be one year that I feel like this, maybe it will be a few years.  I don't have the answer.  But I do know that no amount of playing with words to create a nicer sounding response or pretending that I'm full of strength and hope or even verbiage that creates the illusion of joy is going to be the answer.  I respect the characteristics of honesty and transparency way too much to do otherwise.

So here, in this space, you will only read words of reality.

So, what the heck am I thankful for this year?

Well, obviously I am most thankful for the years I did have with Bill.  I loved, most of all, creating our family and our world together.  I am thankful for all of those experiences and memories.

I am grateful for my family.  The understanding, the guidance and help, and the acceptance of us has been the hidden blessing of the past year.  There are no words to express my gratitude.  Each one, in their own way, has tried to help me carry this load.  Each one has done so quietly and without need of recognition.

I am thankful for the strangers who have become my friends.  People who have graciously and repeatedly shown my family what love is.  With words, deeds, or sometimes even financially--these people are amazing.  Bill would be so impressed and proud to call you his friends too.

Who else?  Well, certainly my Baker City sisters.  If I ever were to relocate, I think it would be to Baker.  These ladies have generously adopted my family as one of their own and blessed us with a monthly gift of encouragement.  Amazing I tell you.  Just amazing.

I am thankful for our community.  Seriously, never let anyone speak poorly of the Canyon area.  Time and again my family has been shown incredible kindness by members of this community.   Churches, youth sports organizations, school district employees, local business owners, even people I don't even know have all renewed my faith that people are inherently good.

I am thankful for my friends.  Some are old and some are new.  And it doesn't matter which one is which anymore.  There are friends who stayed with me in the hospital and friends who didn't leave my side for months afterwards.  Friends who shared tea and wine with me and friends who just listened.  Friends who walked with me (quite literally) and friends who helped me fix things that were broken.  There were friends who helped with my kids and those who made me laugh.  There were definitely friends who ignored my bouts of insanity and encouraged me to just focus on the next thing.  I have friends who have allowed me to be forgetful and who have not been offended by my behavior.  Friends have shown me forgiveness and understanding time and again.

To me, the definition of a friend is simply a person who is willing to come alongside of you and help to shoulder your burdens.  It is someone who does not require perfection and is willing to overlook your shortcomings.  It is someone who can, at least temporarily, put another person's needs above their own.

The past year I have lived in my worst nightmare.  There is no denying that.   But through the grief and adversity and fear I have learned exactly what is most paramount in life.  It's not stuff or money.  It's not cars and houses and fancy clothes.  It's people.  And the relationships that we create and grow with those people.

For that lesson, I am thankful.

Me and Ozzy Are Together

Riding on that Crazy Train.  Yep, that should definitely be my theme song right now.

Want to hear about my crazy?  Sure you do.

So my neighbor comes into the post office last week.  Nothing unusual about that--the guy has to pick up his mail and everything.  I'm in the back of the office, sorting the mail, when I hear someone say, "Hi, Julie. How are you doing today?"  When I peeked out to see who was talking to me, all I saw is the back of a red and black buffalo checked jacket.  Exactly like Bill's.  My eyes were telling me it was Bill but my mind was strongly disagreeing.  I was confused.  And shocked.  And speechless.  I knew it was my neighbor, I could see him standing right in front of me.  But my (crazy) mind could not make sense of the situation and all I could do was stare.  Oh, and open my mouth repeatedly without finding the ability to actually speak intelligible words.  The poor guy looked so confused and befuddled.  And then I mumbled something to him about crying and ran into the back.  Needless to say he made a hasty exit.

But here's my favorite freak out of the week:

I am a regular church-goer.  Have been for years.  Or at least I was until a few months ago.  One Sunday, out of left field,  I was just smothered by this horrible feeling of sadness whilst sitting through a service.  There was nothing unusually upsetting about the sermon or the music or the people around me.  I was just overcome by sadness.  Grief is stealthy like that.  I was missing Bill something terrible and I was feeling conspicuous over a comment someone had made to me about sitting my hypocritical hind end in a pew (Really, aren't we all guilty of that?!  Isn't that a reason why we go to church?!). So I decided to take a break from it all for a bit.  Just until it felt okay again.  You must understand that my intuition serves me better than my brain these days.

Well, something shifted this weekend and encouraged me to finally go back.  It just felt right.

Pffft.

I got there okay.  Settled the kids in just fine too.  Felt comfortable and pretty chill.  And then I freaked out.  Big time.

I felt all fuzzy-headed and warm.  My heart started pounding and racing.  Then it was like the walls were closing in on me.  I know that sounds so cliche but it is the best description I can come up with.  I ran to the bathroom, threw up, hyperventilated, and then couldn't leave the bathroom.  Honest to goodness, I just stared at the door handle and despite my mind telling my hand to grab the darn thing and turn it, I just couldn't do it.  It took me about 15 minutes before I could escape.  It was a frightening and strange experience.

I know it was a panic attack or some other manifestation of anxiety.  Duh.  I also know that I don't need any help dealing with it.  And I don't need a pill to hide my reality.  Time.  I just need time.

Someday I won't feel the acuteness of loneliness and isolation and grief.  Someday I hope to remember Bill's voice singing the songs and feel the sweetness of happy memories.  Today I just felt the emptiness of nothingness.

Hey, but I put on a good show.

Beige.

That's how I feel.  Just beige.

I've had a few people ask why I haven't been writing as of late.  The answer is easy:  I'm a downer.  Even I grow weary of my downerness (pretty sure I just made that word up).

But I just can't shake that feeling.

I guess I'm pretty lonely too.  Even when I stand amongst a crowd of people, I still feel isolated and alone.  Quite honestly, I hardly feel like leaving the house anymore because of it.  At home there is no one to cluck their tongue at me in disdain or pity.

Am I depressed?  Probably.  But don't you think I deserve that excuse for at least a while?  I think so.

I worry that I'm too short-tempered and impatient for my kids.  That I let them watch too much television and spend too much time on the computer.  I know they've had way too much soda lately and not enough vegetables.  Bad attitudes, disobedience, and disrespect seem to be too commonplace in my home now.

But I have no answers to improve the situation.  I'm too tired to make anymore decisions by myself.

By myself.  When I wake up in the middle of the night and can't stop the memories from "that" weekend in January, there is no one to talk with me about it.  No one who understands.  There is no one to tell me what to do with naughty boys and broken cars and full septic tanks.

Maybe beige is the color of loneliness.  With nary a sparkle to be found.

A Good Day and a Bad Day All Wrapped Up Into One Day.

How's that for a title?!

Today is my birthday.  My 44th birthday to be exact.  I am not one of those women who won't admit their true age.  On the contrary, I'm quite proud to admit how many times I've circled the sun.  With each orbit I like to think that I've learned some new lessons about life and that I've also contributed something back to the world.

If you ask me, this year's lessons have pretty much sucked.

Actually that's not true.  Even though I've had my heart broken in the worst possible way this year, I have also experienced the beauty of love and understanding and empathy.  Often from the most unlikely sources too!  I feel like I have had to reconsider my previous definitions of life, family, friends, love, stability, courage, fear, and peace.  Slowly I am realizing these new truths and reorganizing their places in my life.  Some I can embrace with hope and some I slowly wrap in memories and reluctantly shut away.  Maybe not forever.  But I can't see far enough to know.

Enough of that kind of thinking for tonight.

The little kids and I participated in a local fun run/walk this morning.  It was really a fitting way to start the day as well as the new year of my life.  Lovely weather, fresh air, and good company makes me happy.  I had the opportunity to spend the afternoon with some dear girlfriends exploring a few area antique shops, laughing, and talking.  Coffee, thrifting, antiques, and wonderful friends also make me happy.   I ended the day with a tiny celebration at home, surrounded by my favorite people.  Pizza, cake, scotch, and family makes me happier still.

So you see, it really was a good day and a bad day all wrapped up into one day.  New and old.  Happy and sad.  Different and the same.  Topsy turvy.  Full and empty.  That is my life now.  Painful but familiar.

Bill liked to make big plans for my birthday but they seldom worked out exactly how he imagined. Isn't that the way life goes?   He would end up disappointed and frustrated at his imperfect attempt to make my day special.  He would apologize and run to the store to buy me a Skor bar to make up for the disasters of the day.  (And there were always disasters on my birthday.  Ask me about the time he made me drive to this obscure town in North Carolina to pick up a part and Jack threw up in the car and there was no place to eat lunch except Denny's and we were gone until 9:00 at night.  That was a birthday I will never forget!) I would laugh at him and eat the chocolate and be so grateful for the simplicity of our life.  I never really wanted anything for my birthday except to spend the day together.

A Post About Friends.

For the past several years, we have always hosted a little NOT back to school party on Labor Day because, really, we don't go back to school.  Around here we always have school.  To me, I can't see the point of taking the entire summer off and then spending weeks just trying to remember where we'd left off back in June.  Also, wouldn't you rather take a bit of time off in the Fall when the weather is still nice and the apples need to be picked?  Or at Christmas time when there are so many great traditions and memories to be experienced.  Or maybe a week off in the spring when the daffodils start blooming and you really need to get your hands in the dirt again.  We like to spread our breaks out over the course of the entire year.

But I digress.  Our school schedule is not what this post is about.  This post is about friends.

Friend:  a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection.  Dwell on the definition for a moment.

So getting back to the subject of our party....
There almost wasn't a party this year.  I wasn't really up for it, both emotionally and practically.  I didn't have anything to contribute to a meal and I certainly didn't want to make a trip to the grocery store on Labor Day.  But the kids were relentless, as kids can be, and sent out a few last-minute texts and created an impromptu end-of-the-summer party.  The guest list was very limited.

Later on as I sat around my decrepit old picnic table, the cool breeze of a late summer evening rustling the leaves above me and the slightly chaotic rumble of many voices caught up in many conversations surrounding me, I was overcome by the comfortable feeling of contentment.  Simple, easy, living-in-the-moment contentment.  And what made it all so perfectly lovely was the company.  A company of friends.

Friends can be people you've known only a short amount of time or people you've known practically your entire life.  Friends can be members of your family or someone who is unrelated.  Friends can be both old and young, male or female.  Wealth, or lack thereof, does not determine friendship.  Friends do not have to share the same ideas and life goals.  Friends can have vastly different lives even.

As I looked around, it occurred to me that each person sitting at my table was my friend in the truest definition of the word.  Not only did we share that bond of mutual affection, we also were willing to help shoulder each other's burdens.  And in that moment, just for that one moment, I felt safe and understood and valued.

When I reflect on the past many months I am reminded, over and over again, of the people who have shown my family true friendship.  People who have stopped by unannounced.  Those who have sent letters.  People who have offered support and people who have stepped in and helped guide my kids. There are so many other examples of similar kindness, but all of these things share one major theme.  And that theme is friendship.

For that I am most thankful.

Bill's Birthday

One of Bill's favorite places.  He hadn't been in years.  I wish we would have just gone ahead and hiked in last fall.

Today, September 2, is Bill's birthday.  This would have been his 42nd.

Bill loved to act like he didn't want a fuss made for him but really, he did.  He was a presents guy all the way.  Any sort of gift was acceptable as long as it was wrapped up.  The wrapping didn't even have to be nice either.  In that way he was pretty easy to make happy on his birthday.  I've been known to wrap up a candy bar or pack of gum.  A bottle of beer even.  Besides his presents, he was all about the cake.  Occasionally he chose pie for his birthday dessert but usually it was chocolate cake with chocolate filling and chocolate frosting.  He ate his piece in a bowl full of milk.  I tried a bite once but it just tasted soggy and gross.  That's how he ate cake though.  Always.

How do we celebrate his birthday now?

Nothing I think of trying feels quite right.  I mean, I'll still bake a cake.  That's something the kids wanted to do.  But there won't be presents.  No birthday morning donuts or birthday surprise lattes in the afternoon.  (Bill was totally a girly coffee drinker.  Sure, he liked a black coffee, but he loved a latte.  A caramel latte, eggnog latte, or salted caramel mocha?  He was such a closet coffee sissy.)  No dinner out followed by a trip to Target to spend his birthday money on non essentials.

Maybe I'll plant another apple tree.  Or make a donation to his favorite charity.  But most likely I'll just be reminded that he's not here and try to figure out how to celebrate in a new way.  A new way that would make him laugh and know he is loved.  Still.

I'd better go frost that cake.

A Lesson For All Men. And Boys.

 Blackberries.  Cobbler, sauce over ice cream, by the handful.

 Pullet eggs.  And big girl eggs.

A project.  The ending was rather unexpected.  But a happy surprise.

Something feels amiss.

Duh.

Obviously many things feel amiss around these parts but there is this niggling feeling I have that I've been unable to pinpoint.  A feeling of fear almost.  Unsettled and mildly phobic.  A feeling of vulnerability to the most extreme level.

Once again, duh.

I think I figured it out though.  It's because of Bill.  Or rather, the lack of Bill now.  Had he not been the always-present, always-supportive, always-encouraging guy that he was, I suppose I wouldn't feel so bereft right now.  For the majority of my life (see http://juliekp71.blogspot.com/) I've had Bill's support and confidence as my foundation.  He never discouraged my ideas (except about redecorating or furniture rearranging).  He always offered authentic praise and encouragement.  I never, ever doubted his complete acceptance of me.  I knew he loved me unconditionally and would do anything to protect me.  He never missed an opportunity to tell me I was beautiful or a great mom or the best wife.  He put me first.  Always.

So fellas, here's my advice:  Be like Bill.  Treat your wives or girlfriends just like Bill treated me.  Trust me on this.  Girls dig guys who are devoted and full of adoration for them.  If you can't invoke these feelings willingly and with ease, then maybe you've got yourself the wrong partner!

So anyway,  it's no wonder I'm feeling bereft.  The only place I can feel comfortable now is in my home.  With my kids.  It's a bit compelling that I feel this way.  I used to like entertaining and socializing and being around people.  Bill always said that I would talk to anyone.  Not so much anymore.  It's not that I'm lacking confidence in myself, though it was much easier to feel confident when Bill was around to boost me up.  I just feel vulnerable and pretty defenseless.  Always on edge and waiting for people to critique me.  Am I grieving correctly?  Am I parenting correctly?  Am I living correctly?  Am I widowing correctly?  I suppose with time I'll move past those feelings and maybe not even care what other people think.  But for now, I feel too exposed and raw when I'm out of my element.

My single priority (and it really is the only one) is raising these kids and doing it the way Bill and I intended to from the beginning.  I've said it before and I'll declare it many more times I'm sure, but my world is very small.  Very, very small these days.  But I am comfortable here in my little world.  I can supervise and manage, nurture and teach, and encourage and love in this small space, bolstered by Bill's example.  There's not much elbowroom or space for guests to spread out in this realm but it's quiet and allows me to just breathe.

But it is alone.  And that's a word I don't think I'll ever get used to.

3 years.

When I woke up this morning, it occurred to me that I have lived in this house for exactly three years.  That's 1095 days, give or take a few days when we've been out of town.  That's 36 months and 7 percent of my life.  That doesn't sound like very much, does it?  Well, here's another set of personal statistics:  I've been visiting this house for 63 percent of my life, spanning over 27 years.  Bill has been gone slightly over 8 months.  That's a wee bit more than 2 percent of my life.  But, that same 8 months also represents 22 percent of the total time we've lived here.  So to sum it up, I've been familiar with this house for 66 percent of my life, have lived here for 7 percent of my life, and lived without Bill for 2 percent of my life.  I've been alone here for nearly 25 percent of the total time we've called this our home.

Give me a calculator and a few spare minutes and I can figure out anything!

I'm glad Bill was able to spend a few years where he loved to be, doing what he loved to do.  Not everyone has the opportunity to accomplish that.  Certainly, his desire to live a quiet and simple life (rather than a life spent chasing after self-importance and hoarding of material goods) allowed him to accomplish this goal.

I only wish those numbers above could read differently.  I'd love for him to see the Maple trees change colors and drop their confounded leaves (on the roof and in the gutters) again.  I'd love for him to watch the corn tasseling in the garden.  The baby chicks grow into real egg-laying ladies.  Little black calves born.  Flowers grow and then wither in the late summer heat.  Spotted fawns turn into young bucks sporting velvet horns.  Girls grow up and begin their own amazing lives.  Boys grow taller than their own Dad.  New drivers.  New achievements.  New memories made over simple pleasures. I'd love to have him see my hair get a little grayer with each passing year.  Sitting on the front porch.  Together.  Just watching and laughing and living.

I guess I'll just have to be content with my 63 percent.  If I had to do it again with the knowledge that there would never be more than 63 percent......

you can be certain that I would indeed.  Because, after all, isn't 63 better than 62?

What Not To Do. At Least If You're Me.

Don't watch any videos from the past.  Was it actually real?  I can't tell anymore.

Don't attend funerals.  Especially when it's for an amazing person who leaves behind an equally amazing legacy.  The beauty of a life well-lived is inspiring but the grief that follows in death is heartbreaking.  Absolutely heartbreaking.

Don't revisit.  Places.  Songs.  Memories.  Dates on the calendar.

Don't stare into the eyes of a confused and mourning child.  You do not want to see the fear and sadness that crowds out curiosity and blissful ignorance.  Especially when you can do nothing to make it better.

Do not think about the future.  Or what the future "should" have been.

Do not close your eyes at night, waiting for the silence and dark to quiet your mind and give you rest.  Instead, that pause makes it all come rushing at you, smothering.

Here's a Little Story For You.

I think maybe I've shared a bit of this story before but it's just so good that I need to explain it all in better detail.  I know it has inspired me and I hope it sparks someone else to action as well.

I also need to explain that I'm not publishing names in this story.  The sweet souls that I'm writing about would not want to be set on a public pedestal.  I believe they would be most content knowing that their generosity and kindness were inspiring others while they still remain anonymous.  They're sort of like a secret club--thugs of love, if you will.

So here's my story:

One afternoon, late this winter, I was surprised to find a rather large package waiting for my on my front porch.  I looked at the return address and had no idea who the sender was.  In fact, I only know a handful of people from the town this package came from.  Perplexing, but intriguing.  When I opened the box, I was greeted by a bevy of goodies:  cards with encouraging messages, books, sweet treats, generous gifts to be used for fun outings.  All of these special gifts were given to my family with the hope of offering us a little bit of joy and hope during our dark days.  But the most incredible gift was the offer of friendship and support for me while I navigated my new course in life.  Promises of prayers.  Encouraging words.  Expressions of shared grief.  No one expected anything in return from me.  This amazing group of girls just gathered around my family and pledged their love and support.

And each month since then, there has been a package on my doorstep.

I cannot express how touched I am by these selfless and giving women.  I appreciate their friendship so much and the funny thing is, I don't even know most of them.  Really.  I wouldn't know who they were if I were standing next to them.  I have had the opportunity to meet several of these friends in person and spend time with them and am awed by their willingness to accept me into their group with no reservations.  Like we've been old friends for years and years.  I'm in awe, I tell you.  Just in awe.

So here's what I've learned from these ladies:  be generous and loving and willing to shoulder the burdens of those around you.  Offer unrequited support.  Expect nothing in return.  Be creative in giving.  Pray.

This concept encourages me greatly.  It inspires me to find someone I can offer some part of myself to.  Sometimes it might be financially, sometime it might be a gift of my time, and other times it might just be sitting together in solidarity.  Do something for someone else and do it expecting nothing in return.  Heck, do it anonymously.  And then keep doing things.  For your kids, your husband, your friends, your neighbors, the lady in the grocery store, the man at the oil change place. We have ample opportunities presented to us daily.

Don't worry about looking foolish or stepping on someone's toes.  Really, wouldn't you rather make someone smile and help them to experience a tiny sparkle of joy in their day instead of missing the opportunity all together just because you were afraid?  Be bold.  Step out and take chances.  Trust me on this--no one is going to complain about kindness.  And if they do complain, maybe they just need a little more love heaped on them until they smother underneath that heavy, cloying, deep layer of love.

That might be going a little too far.

6 Months.

It's been six months today since I saw you.  Since I talked to you, actually.  That's half a year.  It seems like forever but at the same time it seems like you were just here.  Your presence is sort of like that sparkly trail that follows behind a shooting star or the glittery bits that fall after the fireworks fade away.  It's still there but slowly getting dimmer.  But you're still bright and shiny and living in my heart.

Hey, we got your other cow.  The herd you always wanted:  one bull and two cows.  There should be some babies on the way beginning in the fall.  You would have loved those babies.  Jon is just like you and is already talking about baby cows and 4-H.  First thing he did is head down to the field with a bowl of grain in order to get familiar with Beatrice (that's her name but we think we'll call her Beezus.) and spoil her.  Sissy still plays that game you taught her where she lets you grab her horns and shake her head around.  Bud moos at me whenever I'm outside--he's like a big dog.  You would hardly recognize Jon.  His legs have grown about 6 inches and he's getting so big.  He still wears those gloves and the wrist bands, but he's always been a little peculiar, hasn't he?  He looks like you more and more all the time.  I see you in his smile and in his eyes.

You'd be proud of how hard Jack has worked to keep things looking nice around here.  He's already put up all our wood for the winter.  He used his 3-wheeler and that little trailer to do it all--it took about 20 loads!  The pump broke again so I had to get it rebuilt but Jack was able to install it with no trouble.  He also installed a new fence energizer and adjusted all the gates.  I'm so glad you taught him those things.  He reminded me the other day that the roof needed to be de-mossed so we'll be adding that chore to the list.  That list just never ends, does it?  Jack's laugh is your laugh.  I hear it and it is you.

Madeline registered for school in the fall.  She's been working on a schedule for the past several days.  How can we have a child who will be in college?  Weren't you and I just hanging out at Rio's and playing video poker just yesterday?  Geez.  Her trip is coming up quickly, in just about a month.  I remember when you took that same trip.  It seemed like you were gone forever, even though it was only 3 weeks.  I better understand "forever" now.  Don't you think your Grandma would be happy to know that Madeline is going on that same trip?  She's a good kid, Bill.  She has your temperament and ease.

Sarah has two new loose teeth.  I wish you were here to pull them.  You know how much I hate those loose teeth.  She's growing so tall and she's so sassy.  Just a wild, passionate, eclectic kid.  Exasperating, sure, but so fun.  She talks about you every night and reminds me that you love me.  Still.

Vance and Laurie came for a visit.  It made me miss Virginia so much.  Can you believe I said that?  We made it a home, didn't we?  Even when it was hard we worked together and made a home for our family.  That's why I love Virginia.  Anyway, we just spent time visiting and took a little trip to Crater Lake.  You should have seen me driving the road up to the Lodge. It was my version of hell:  water on one side, cliff on the other side, winding road, high elevation.  I thought I was going to die.  Even Vance said he was a little scared.  I did it though.  I'll admit to you that I had a nice, strong glass of scotch once I parked the car and got settled.  We talked about you a lot.  They miss you too.

We spent a day at the beach with Gilly and Erica.  The weather was perfect and we just sat and ate chips and chocolate and visited.  We talked about you. The kids played together for hours.  You would have loved it.

I got a job.  I know how you felt about that but it's what I need to do.  I'll take the little kids with me at some point so that makes it better.  You weren't supposed to leave me and make me figure this stuff out by myself.

I helped Matt and Brandi paint their house this weekend.  It's Dolby's old farmhouse.  Seeing the transformation from old and shabby to clean and new makes me remember working together so hard to fix up this old house.  Gosh we worked hard.  You loved this house so much.  You loved the history and the character.  You loved the memories.  You loved the potential that existed in the future here.  Anyway, it was bittersweet to paint there.  Happy for the promise of someone else's future but so sad for ours. Plus, you know how much I love to fix up a house that doesn't belong to me!  I can go home and leave it behind when it's not mine.

It's been 6 months.  You really weren't supposed to leave me.  I need help raising these kids and working on the house and knowing when to put tires on the car.  I need help knowing if Jack is being safe with his new saw bar and if Jon knows gun safety.  Who will teach Jon how to hunt?  Madeline needs help choosing classes and Sarah needs her teeth pulled out.  What will happen if I get sick?  You're not here to take care of me.  How will I get up on the roof--I'm scared of heights.  I need you to listen to my ideas and tell me that I'm not crazy.  I need you to decipher political stuff for me and explain the parts I don't understand.  I need you to be snoring in bed next to me.

Six months seems like forever.  But I know that forever is still a long way off.

Heartbreaking.

Want to know what's heartbreaking?  When your six year old refuses to take off her Dad's old sweatshirt because she says, "It smells just like Daddy."  She sits on the sofa inhaling deeply.  Over and over.

I Do Not Leave My Children Home Alone. Even Though It May Appear That Way.

Maybe I should begin this post with a disclaimer.  This disclaimer explains that I am not suggesting women who work outside the home are making a poor choice.  No more than I'm suggesting that women who chose not to have children are inferior to those who do.  I'm not judging anyone.  I'm just sharing my situation and why it's difficult for me.  Seriously.  No judgement here.

So.  I had to get a job.  Let's not talk about it though because I'm not happy about it.  I'm grateful for the opportunity but I'm not happy.  Bill never wanted me to go to work.  Hell, if we're being honest here I never wanted to go to work either.  I took my work at home seriously and did a kick-ass job taking care of Bill, the kids, the house, the yard, volunteering where I was needed in the community, helping at church, etc.  It wasn't like I laid around watching TV and eating cupcakes all day.  But when a person finds herself in a situation like mine--no income, no property, a passel of kids to feed and clothe, a future to consider--changes must be made and personal dreams must be put aside.  So I got a job.

Today, while at this job, there was a small catastrophe at home.  I had left the kids sleeping (Madeline was at work) because they have had a busy few weeks and I felt they needed some time to lay low and just chill out.  So as my darlings were blissfully slumbering in their cozy beds, a well-meaning person came to my door to inform me about the minor emergency and was greeted by little Sarah.  This person asked to talk to me and Sarah says, "My Mama is at work.  I'm just by myself."  Nice.  Neither Jack nor Jon got out of bed to investigate this stranger who was standing at the back door.  But you'll be happy to know that Sarah did invite said stranger into the house.  Such excellent manners.  For the record, my child was NOT at home by herself--her older brothers were in the next room, ignorantly choosing to stay in bed instead of taking care of the business at hand. I am not a neglectful mother.  Really I'm not.

This is hard for me.  This is so incredibly foreign to me.  I am trying to honor Bill's wishes for our family.  I know what he wanted for us and how he wanted us to live.  I know his values and priorities.  I'm not sure I'm getting it right.  I'm also not sure that I have any other choice.

Think about this:  If you've always worked full time, imagine suddenly having to stay at home full time.  If you've always had plentiful resources, imagine finding yourself with not enough money to buy food for the day.  If you lived in a 3000 square foot house imagine being forced to move into a 300 square foot apartment.  If you lived in Hawaii and then had to move to Iceland.  If you had no children and then gave birth to or adopted five of them.  If you led an active life and then suffered an injury that left you confined to a wheelchair.   Yes, yes, I know none of these are life and death situations, in fact, I believe we refer to such problems as "first world problems".  But either way it cannot diminish the shock and pain that accompanies sudden, unexpected change.

I've had enough of this change crap.  No more.

Honesty.

Why do I write?  Why keep this blog?  I guess in part because someday I hope to look back at the words I've written and see where I've come from.  Maybe see some progress even.  Little bits of joy and fun times possibly.  But right now, in the midst of everything, I am blind and deaf to the world around me.

Can't say I'm really happy about this.  It's just the honest to goodness truth.  And since I'm speaking about honesty, why paint a picture that isn't truthful?  Why pretend to brush my paper with vivid greens and bright pinks, warm yellows or brilliant blues, when I really just want muddy browns and dark greys?  (Gosh, does anyone remember when Sarah was like 3 years old and painted using only black paint?  I'd offer her an entire pan of watercolors and she'd only use black.  It was disturbing.)  There is no glitter or shine.  Only flat, murky chaos.

It's not getting better or easier.  I think I'm sinking even deeper.

I have no patience.  I have no focus.  There is no joy even though I have plenty to be joyful about--I'm not a completely irrational ingrate, after all. There is no direction.  There are no more dreams.  There is no hope, though my mind tells me that isn't totally true either.  My heart just keeps usurping all the power.

I have so much fear now.  Fear of the future.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of remembering.  Fear of being alone.  Fear of messing up.  Fear of abandonment.    Fear of ruining my children.

I sit outside and can't feel the warmth of the sun even though I can see the light.  I don't hear the wind rushing through the leaves on the trees even though I can see them moving.  I look at the jasmine blooming outside my window but I can't smell its sweetness anymore.  There is no full cookie jar in my kitchen.  I used to think that a happy house must have, at all times, a full cookie jar.  No candles lit at the dinner table either.

I hate this place where I am right now.  It's dark and lonely and scary.  It's suffocating me and I'm unable to find a way out.  Maps (even Apple Maps!) are useless.  Advice falls upon my unhearing ears.  Kindness is like a life ring, thrown by those trying to help me escape the incoming tide, but I'm just too tired to keep ahold of it.

Weary.

Bill was my compliment.  He rubbed off my hard, pointy corners and made me softer and less pokey.  He helped wear down my scratchy and garish bits until I glowed with a beautiful, though aged, patina.  In his presence, you didn't notice the parts of me that had been broken off, worn away, repainted, or glued back together.

I'm not sure what's left of me now.

Happy Father's Day. Or Maybe Happy Solstice Day.

I won't lie.  Seeing all the Father's Day messages on Facebook brought me down pretty low today.  Well, that's not entirely true.  It wasn't me I was sad for, it was my kids.  I think from now on we might just have to put the emphasis on celebrating the Summer Solstice instead.  Well, that's not entirely true either.  I'm not a pagan or a Druid and I don't like to dance around naked, so maybe the Summer Solstice thing isn't quite the answer either.  Hmmm.

What I do know is that my kids had the greatest father ever.  Eternally patient.  Optimistic.  A realist who understood the need for magic.  Loving and supportive.  Playful and silly.  Full of wisdom and a wonderful teacher.  The greatest example of a godly man I've ever known.

Dear Bill, from the moment you decided we should start a family (I know everyone thought we were crazy and that it was my idea, but you and I know the truth!) sooner than later, you were already the best Dad.  You cried when I told you I was pregnant and had this goofy smile on your face for about 3 months.  You never balked when I asked for ginger-ale mixed with sprite and lime juice at 11:00 PM.  You made sure I had blueberry pancakes and mesquite-broiled shrimp at least once a week.  You were so calm and reassuring when I had Madeline.  You took to parenthood much easier than I did.  You'd just stick your pinkie in her mouth and sing Sinatra to her until she fell asleep.  You were the nighttime bather--always with baby lotion for a "ssage" after.  Madeline thought you hung the moon.  I was nervous and uptight and you were easy-going and joyful.  What lessons you taught me.

Then Jack came along.  Again, you sang Sinatra and walked the floor for as long as it took to get him to sleep.  Just that one time (remember?) did you lose your patience with the sleeplessness.  Thank heavens for the sound machine!  Remember when you dropped him at the beach and we had to take him to the ER?  I know how terrible you felt.  You let me sleep in the next morning and took him to The Pines restaurant for breakfast.  You never tried to sway the kids to a particular way of life, but instead encouraged them in their own interests.  Lucky for you that Jack loved backhoes, "yog" trucks, and baseball.  You taught him about it all the right way.  You also taught him to act like a man and be honest, responsible, hard-working, and kind.  You were the greatest role model.

Before Jonny, there was the baby.  You cried right along with me through it all.  You understood enough to not question my need to repaint the bedroom that week.  Even when I chose purple.  And you spoke the words of truth that helped me understand it all.  And now you get to be with that child and tell him about his Mama and his siblings and how someday we will all be together again.  I know you'll tell all the right stories and teach all our family's traditions.

And then came Jonathan.  Easy pregnancy.  Easier birth.  You were with me, again, through all of it.  Kind of an old hand at this parenting stuff by now.  We were so in the groove that we took a vacation when Jon was 10 days old.  I remember it wasn't a great time.  But you took it all in stride and made the best of it.  It was about this time that you moved us to Virginia.  How you loved it there and how you worked so hard making a home for us.  I think it was there that we truly became a family.  Jon, so different from the other kids, loved to listen to you read.  Or talk about the Civil War.  Or hear about fishing from Frances Ames's books.  You would set up elaborate toy soldier battles with Jon or play guns with him outside in the woods.  You were so patient and attentive to his presentations.  Remember how you slept by his crib for months after we moved just so he wouldn't wake up and be afraid?

Sarah.  Our baby that you delivered at home.  And then you saved me.  Too many words to express that night so let's forge ahead.  The only one of our babies that preferred me.  I think you were disappointed to have your streak broken!  Sarah was definitely my baby, but you picked up the slack with the other kids effortlessly.  Sure, you might have fed them garbage from time to time and let them watch way too many episodes of "The X-Files" but you were always there and always loving.  Sarah loved to listen to the "Speakaboo" stories when you put her to bed.  You were lucky when she'd crawl up on your lap for a snuggle.  I know you savored those times.  She did too, even if she acted otherwise.

So many things, some big and some little, that you instilled in our kids.  I see it every day.  In Madeline's laid back attitude, Jack's laugh,  Jon's sense of humor (and his eyes!), and the silly twinkle in Sarah's eyes.  It's all you.  I thank God for the reminders of you that I see in each of them.  You gave them so much.  Some of the seeds you planted won't be harvested for years yet to come.  But I know your influence will always, always be apparent in their lives.  Little glimpses of you throughout their lives.  Oh, how I look forward to each and every one.

You were the best Dad.  I'm pretty sure you knew how special you were.  How incredible you were.  I only wish there would have been more time.  But the time you did have was amazing.  I'm ever so thankful for it.

20

Pine Valley Lodge.

Wallowa Lake Lodge.

My favorite house in Cornucopia.

Today is my 20th wedding anniversary.

Twenty years ago I walked down the aisle, changed my name, and became some one's wife.  I remember it thundered and poured down rain while Bill and I stood before our friends and family saying our vows.  You know how fickle June weather can be in Oregon.

We drove to The Dalles that first night as Mr. and Mrs. Pennick.  We stopped in Woodburn at the Burger King because neither of us had eaten since the morning--which would prove to be a really poor idea.  I spent the next night throwing up.  Newly married, wearing one of the cute nighties I had received as a gift at one of my bridal showers,  and barfing in the bathroom.  Bill had to run to the little store at Wallowa Lake to buy me ginger ale and crackers.  I'm pretty sure I slept on the hide-a-bed in the living room of our little cottage too.

We divided the days of our honeymoon between a tiny chalet at Wallowa Lake and a funky bed and breakfast called, Pine Valley Lodge, in Halfway.  Funny thing, that short stay in Halfway really impacted and influenced our future.  How many times did we say to each other over the years, "Is that what Babette would do?"  Or, "How would Babette make this better?"  I remember sitting on the porch one night, eating dinner by lantern light, watching the bats pour out of the attic of the old church across the street.  Hundreds of them!  That church later became Babette's art gallery. This year I will be purchasing a print from her titled "Cornucopia" so I can always remember our first days as a married couple.  (For those of you who don't know the story:  Babette Beatty, the inn-keeper at the B&B, was the first Sports Illustrated swimsuit model and a really cool lady.  She infused the world around her with the perfect combination of rural living, fancy living, and graciousness.  She had such an ease about her.  Bill and I both wanted to be like her when we grew up!)

In the 20 years of our marriage, I've been pregnant or nursing a baby for more than half that time. Because of that, our anniversaries have never amounted to anything grand.  Most of the time we spent the day with our kids doing something highly unromantic.  At least probably not what others would consider romantic.  To us, we were content to be doing the simple, domestic tasks of our life.  Our first anniversary (I was pregnant with Madeline) was spent at Bob's Burgers on Commercial St. in Salem.  It rained.  In the past few years, I think we always celebrated at a baseball field.  I remember last year (spent at Keizer Little League Park) Bill bought me a lawn chair and a piece of cake from Konditerei.  He knew me well.

So where do I go from here?  How do I celebrate now?  Do I celebrate?!  I do remember.  I will always remember.  Bill was my best friend.  I chose wisely.  (Remember that line from "The Last Crusade" where the knight is guarding the Holy Grail?)  I really did.  I suppose the best thing to do is celebrate like we always have.  There's just one thing missing though.

Bill, I finished your list.  That's my present to you.

College. Mother Earth News. Words.

Today I helped Madeline register for college classes starting this fall.  It was a pretty simple and straightforward process.  A strong proficiency for independent learning is one of the benefits of homeschooling so I believe she'll have little trouble acclimating to this new education experience.  It would make Bill swell with pride knowing that his daughter will soon be attending college. Helping Madeline, as well as our other kids, find their paths, their vocations, their passion, is my most important job.  It's daunting, really, this immense responsibility.

I had the opportunity to spend a few hours at the "Mother Earth News Fair" in Albany this weekend.  So many inspiring ideas and products!  Though most things were seriously out of my price range.  It seemed funny to me that this modern push for self-sufficiency comes with such a high price tag.  How is that encouraging self-reliance?!    The highlight of my time at the fair was meeting Taryn and her family from the blog, "Wooly Moss Roots", as well as Amanda Soule, the author of the blog, "Soulemama". How fun to speak, face to face, with these lovely women after visiting their blogs for so many years.  Definitely the highlight.

So I've encountered a new domain in this new life of mine.  And I think I should preface these words with an explanation.  These words are not meant to illicit sympathy or pity from anyone.  I am not asking for renewed involvement or forced interest.  I'm simply sharing the feelings and experiences I come upon while traveling this path.  This is my journey and these are my musings.  So to quote a friend, "Take all I say with a grain of salt."  (Yeah,  I told you you'd never live those words down, my friend.)

In the past several weeks, it seems like the world around me has begun to move away from the original shock and sadness that was felt after Bill's death.  The phone calls have diminished.  The letters and cards have stopped arriving in the mailbox. (The exception being my dear friends from afar who encourage me regularly--usually when I'm at my lowest.  How do y'all know?!)  Help is no longer offered as readily.  I'm not complaining.  Quite the contrary, as I value the quietness and solitude that whispers to me from the margins.  It's just fascinating to me that there seems to be an unspoken time frame for this grieving.  It's not such a harsh and jarring transition.  It's much more subtle.  And I do realize that there is no malicious intent in any of it.  Life just moves on.  And I'm genuinely glad that others can move forward.  It can be exhausting trying to assure people that everything is "okay."

But I'm not ready.

I still feel the shock and the intense sadness.  If anything, those feelings have only gotten stronger with time as I begin to realize the depth of our loss.  The realness starts to sink in, plunging so deep into my soul that it's hard to understand where, or if, it can possibly end.  My world, our world, will not ever be the same.  Not ever.

I believe that this path will force more changes upon us yet.  New people will travel along with us and others will choose to turn off and go in a different direction.  But I don't have that choice.  I must continue on this path.  It is my reality.  I don't get to turn around and retrace my steps or venture to the north or south. east or west.  Nope.  I just have to keep plodding along, praying that there are no villainous predators lurking in the shadows ahead, ready to mock us or hurt us.  That, instead, there is the occasional kind soul who offers us a piece of chocolate or a drink of water.  One who speaks words of encouragement that originate from a place of genuine love rather than originating from their own selfish intentions.

So for me (or us), life does not just go on.  Where I have been before, I may no longer be welcome.  Where I never thought I'd be, I may, indeed, now reside there.

Again, these are my words and my feelings shared for no other reason than to help make sense of this life I'm living.  If you disagree with my words or dislike how it makes you feel, then don't visit here anymore.  But, I must tell you there will be an upcoming post about using chalk paint.  It won't be a downer.  On the contrary.  That chalk paint is awesome stuff.

This Night.

As I write this, Sarah is snuggled next to me, asleep, holding her Daddy's picture in her arms along with her beloved Taggies.  And this is after she explained to me that sometimes she pretends he's sitting in the living room reading a book.  Or that sometimes she talks to him when she's playing.  And that when she gets into bed she pretends that he's lying next to her.  And at baseball games she forgets that he's not in the dugout.

Tell me, how do you respond to that?

Me, I just cry.  Silently, but the tears still wet my pillow.  

Sarah's Birthday and What It Really Means To Me.

Today was Sarah's 6th birthday.  It was celebrated in a way befitting her place in our family, the youngest girl following behind 2 older brothers and 1 older sister.  She wore her sparkly rainbow tiara while playing at one brother's baseball game.  It's the only way she knows how to celebrate a birthday, what with being born in the middle of the season.  Her birthdays have always involved baseball.

Sarah was born at our house in Virginia.  She was nearly 2 weeks late and Bill delivered her.  Yep, really.  Bill delivered her in our bathroom.  On purpose even.  He was the first person to see Sarah when she entered our world and the person who had the privilege of telling me that she was a she.  It was the most amazing, spectacular, simple birth and I will always, always treasure the memory of that day.  Ask me about it sometime and I'll tell you the whole story.

And then later in the day, Bill saved my life.

Without going into much detail, after Sarah's birth I suffered a rare complication that resulted in massive hemorrhaging.  According to the Doctor who treated me at the hospital, had I not received medical treatment when I did, I would have died as a result from the major loss of blood.  But Bill called the ambulance and got me to the hospital in time. He was so calm and capable.

We used to laugh at that crazy turn of events.  How he loaded the kids up in the van (Sarah was only 6 hours old!) and drove through the Burger King drive-thru while trying to decide what to do next.  He always joked that he was buying cheeseburgers when he didn't even know if I was alive.  How he and Madeline tried to figure out what to feed Sarah should she wake up (we had never used a bottle--I nursed all of the kids).  She, providentially, did not wake up until I was out of surgery.  We smiled when we would remember how Bill had to hold Sarah while I nursed her because I was too weak to hold her myself. We understood the necessity (to us) of him tucking Sarah and I into the hospital bed so he could get himself to Jack's game later that evening. (He was coaching and would not let Jack down)

For years we have talked about what would have happened to our family if Sarah's birth story had not ended so happily.  I guess in some way those conversations were preparing me for the decisions I'm having to make now.  Gosh, I never would have anticipated it working out this way.

What has haunted me today, though, what I cannot get out of my head, is that Bill saved me.  He really, truly did.  I owe him my life.  On the anniversary of Sarah's birth, I am always certain to remember what he did for me.

But I couldn't save his life.  I tried, but I didn't succeed.  That thought, I cannot quiet and it shatters my heart into even more pieces than before.

Our sweet, darling baby girl is now 6 and I am so thankful for her precocious ways and the part of Bill that she represents. Her birthday will always be happy and exciting and sparkly.  But the joy that I feel will always be overshadowed by an undeserved second chance that I could not reciprocate.

Oh, Yes, There Will Be a Job.

The other day someone made the incredibly insensitive statement to me that, "Now I would have to get a job and live like everyone else."

Let's talk about that for a moment, shall we?

First off, the life that Bill and I created was one of purposeful simplicity.  We didn't seek status or wealth.  We never shied away from hard work or complained about our limited resources and comforts.  We wanted to be with each other and our kids as much as possible.  Even if it meant going without many of the supposed "necessities" of modern life.  Except plumbing--I drew the line at outdoor toilets.

This was our dream.

We didn't expect other people to join us.  We didn't criticize anyone for choosing a different route from ours.   People often felt it was their responsibility, however, to mock our choices with surprisingly passionate anger.  How many times did someone refer to our life with the words, "Do they think they're pioneers?"  Not hardly.  Last time I checked we had not traversed the country in a covered wagon to claim our homestead from the government.  I regularly employ a washing machine to clean our clothes.  We are consumers of petroleum products.  We might even eat at McDonald's from time to time.

Maybe we should have just bought a new car or gone into atrocious amounts of debt to get people off our backs!  Surely that would be the answer.

The plan was:  Bill goes to work and I stay home to raise the kids.  That's all we wanted to do.  I had no aspirations for a career.  Ever.  All I wanted was to have children and raise them as close to home as possible.  They are our kids,  therefore our responsibility.  I won't argue about the "it takes a village" idea because there is truth in that statement for sure.  But we wanted to assume the majority of the upbringing of our kids.  We would chose the "village" that supported us in the endeavor rather than default to the norm.  That's the way we had always lived.  It was the way we planned on living until the end.

You know what they say about best laid plans........

So now I'm faced with the process of retooling these ideas, goals, and plans.  My first priority now is to honor Bill's wishes and that means continuing on the path that we had started down.  There are still 4 of our children at home and all 4 of them need me to be available (in different capacities) at all times.  Now more than ever, considering all they've had to experience in the past several months.  Their lives have been brutally upset enough and I will not add anymore upheaval to the already shaky foundation.  For anyone to expect me "to get a job and live like the rest of us"  is spiteful and ugly.  Maybe I should encourage them to "be like me and become a widow!"  Surely, using their logic, that evens the playing field.

Idiots.

So, let's talk about this job now.  Yes, I will have to get a job someday.  And then I'll have to work until I die probably because I have no one else to support me.  Whatever.  I committed myself completely to Bill and allowed him to support me for 20 years.  I have no regrets.  Was it a risk to live this way?  Probably.  But isn't it a risk to drive down the road?  Or even to get out of bed in the morning?   My future is unknown now, but really, wasn't it always unknown?  I do know that I didn't make any stupid or selfish decisions to get myself into this situation.  Of that I am certain.   In the mean time, I will do exactly what Bill would want me to do;  take care of our family.  If I have to eat beans and rice for years, I'll do it.  If I have to wear rags, I'll do that too.  If I have to limp around with a POS car, I'll do it.  If I never go on another vacation again, who the hell cares?  If I have to live in a tent, I'll do it.  As long as things go along as usual for our kids.  For as long as possible.

And so, spiteful wretch, there is the answer to your question.  I appreciate your vengeful interest in my family's overwhelming sorrow and misfortune.  And to borrow our dear friend Gilly's input on such a statement, "There is a special place in hell for someone who gets a thrill out of your grief."  Well said, my friend.  Well said.

Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands.....
1 Thess. 4:11

Bill Always Did Love a Party.

Bill really liked to host a party.  Getting people drinks ("Can I get you some tea?") or a piece of pie--that's what he liked to do.

See the rainbow?  Last night, as our party came to a close, the most incredible, brilliantly vivid rainbow ended at his tree.  Oh, I think he was with us.  He couldn't offer anyone some tea but he certainly offered us something infinitely better.

Thanks to all who shared the day, the work, the meal, and the celebration of the simple with us.

(But let us not forget to thank Costco for its provisions as well.)

Sigh.

Long time married people.  Newly married people.  Firstly married.  Secondly married.  Families with many kids.  Families with one child.  New families.  Old families.  Together families.

They're everywhere I look, surrounding me.  And I took it for granted.  My beautiful, sweet, pure, and perfect family.  Now in it's place is this unfamiliar, broken mess.

What I see mocks and torments me.

So I fill the empty spots with extra.  And busy.  Lots and lots of busy.  Until the busyness runs out.  And then what?

And then I suppose I figure out how to make the proverbial silk purse out of a sow's ear.  How to change my perception of beautiful.  But I don't know how.

Mother's Day.

Trying to put my thoughts together this morning with a letter to Bill.

Hi Bill.  Just me again.  Last week was a crap week.  I don't really know why but it started poorly and then just kept going downhill.  I didn't want to get up today.  It was my first Mother's Day without you.  Remember the Mother's Day when Madeline was just a baby and you hid my present (the Kitchenaid mixer) under our bed and then broke the bed frame when you pulled the box out?  I ended up with a new bed that year too!  I used that darn mixer just yesterday so you chose wisely.  Madeline and Sarah gave me a bracelet and a new pitcher.  It would be the perfect thing for holding your sweet tea.  But no one drinks sweet tea anymore so I guess it'll just be for water.  Alisha was sweet enough to take Jon shopping for a Mother's Day gift on Friday and he brought me some flowers (heliotrope and gerbera daisies!) and a new vase.  He told me his friend Jesse helped him pick out the card.  So sweet.  Heather came to visit yesterday and surprised me with a nice big bouquet from her yard and homemade bread.  The weather was nice so we sat outside while the little kids played.  I missed you a lot today.  You always mowed the lawn and did a major yard clean up for my present. You usually cleaned the bathroom (with bleach, which I dislike, and probably Mop n Glo too) and washed the dishes for me.  You would ask me what I wanted to do for Mother's Day and I always answered, "Go to the Farmer's Market and then to the yarn store."  I didn't do that this year.  No one went to the store and brought me back a Skor bar for dessert either.  That was one of your favorite things to do for me.  Silly.  Oh, and Sarah woke up with a cold this morning and you know how intolerant she is when she's sick.  Yeah, happy Mother's Day to me.

I sat through 4 games and 4 practices this week.  I cried at Jon's practice on Thursday because someone else was showing him how to hit and it should have been you.  I cried after Sarah's game on Saturday because she was the only kid there without her Dad.  All these families around me discussing their weekend plans for Mother's Day and I had no one to plan with.  I was still a Mom, sure, but I was only half of why I was a Mom to begin with.

I bought the first strawberries of the season and made, of course, your favorite strawberry shortcake.  With lots of whipped cream.  You know me and my whipped cream.  Scott and Judith came for dinner too.  Jack, Austin, and Andrew camped up on the logging road last night and fished at the river.  Not a bite, they said.  Three 16 year old boys.  By myself, Bill.  Gosh, I could have used your help with that bunch.  They rode the mini bike in the dark but I had the sense not to let them take a gun camping, even though they tried to convince me that they "needed a gun for protection."  They also tried to convince me to let them drive down to the pond in Gates, saying that two permits was as good as one license.  Seriously.  I don't know what to do with big boys, Bill.  It seems they're always on the verge of hurting themselves, someone's property, their own property, or some other person.

We walked to the Bigfoot spot this afternoon.  I can barely remember where it is now, it's all grown up and looks so different without the beaver pond.  Remember our picnic up there at Niagara Rock when Dolly slid down the hill?  Remember the time we were picking flowers there too and the elk came crashing through the swamp and scared us?  I used to love walking up there with you.

5 games this week and nearly as many practices.  I love it and I hate it.  I love it because it's baseball and because it keeps me busy.  So busy.  But I hate it because it just magnifies your absence.  You should be here showing Jon how to hit and talking about Jack's game with him.  There shouldn't be a sign in center field that says "In loving memory of....".  I don't want your memory.  I want you.

The yard is so pretty right now.  All the rhodies and azaleas are blooming.  I know how much you loved the springtime here.  The garden is growing nicely.  It's smaller this year.  I got your apple trees planted--2 of them, just like you wanted.  Uncle Ken came and put fence up to keep the deer and elk away.

I started reading Hemingway this weekend.  How did I get to be this age and never read Hemingway?  I suppose there's lots of things I still need to do and experience.  Even at my age.  I'll let you know the verdict when I'm finished.

Remember your old boots?  The ones you swore you'd wear until they weren't good for anything but flower planters?  The ones you wouldn't replace after you'd took your vow of poverty when we moved back to Oregon?  I planted flowers in them.  That's all they were good for now.

Surprises That Make It Okay.

This week has been bad.  Really not nice at all.  And then this evening, little glimmers of light shined through the darkness.  I'm sure the ones who shared with me didn't even know how much their kindness lit up my tiny piece of this world.  Oh, but light it they did.

Empathy and kind words from an acquaintance at just the right time. Someone who I now consider a friend.

The gift of chocolate.  Just one small piece for no reason other than to share.  Simple.

Someone who took the time to offer advice and encouragement to my tenderest, quietest child.

Stinky little boys who live in the moment, not worrying about "later".

All who try to welcome, accept, and give friendship to our family.

Could It All Just Be a Bad Dream?

Sometimes I wonder.  In the middle of the night I can nearly forget my reality.  When I'm driving home after baseball practice I forget.  Even when I stand at the sink, washing up the last meal's dishes, I can almost forget about it all.  Just almost.

And then I remember, all too vividly, the look of panic that seems to shadow my sweet Sarah's face now.  I remember her tearful nighttime plea, covered by the anonymity of darkness, that she's afraid I'll leave her and she won't be able to find me.  Her tantrums and irrational behaviors are what make me remember that it is all real.

Do you want to see heartbreak?  True, raw, real heartbreak?  Then watch our littlest girl, the one who was brought into this world by her own Daddy, the one who lives life on her own terms and with the most amazing courage and zeal, become so scared of being left behind and abandoned that she is irrationally afraid, panicked even, at any given moment.  Pure fear.  How can you explain the tragedy of this life to a child?  How can their innocence and sweetness be preserved in troubling times?

Want another example of our heartbreak?  Just read a book or watch a television show or simply check out social media.  There are (intact)families everywhere.  I see Father/daughter balls, Daddies reading bedtime story books, Father's Day gifts to buy, Dads teaching their sons how to throw a curve ball.  Everywhere I look there are Dads.  And kids with their Dads.

I cannot claim this particular brand of heartbreak.  Indeed, I have my own place for that.  This heartbreak is for our children.  Each one is carrying a Dad-sized hole in their souls.  And each hole is going to look a little differently from the others.  All I can do is try to help them figure out how to keep going and how to honor their Dad on their journeys.  I must be their stability, their safe place.  I must teach them things that I don't even know.  I must set the right example for them.  I must protect them.  I must encourage and love them.  I also must discipline and correct them.  I have a huge job.

So.

Don't judge me for my choices.  Don't think you understand me or try to "teach" me a life lesson.  Don't make assumptions about me.  No one, no one at all, has walked in my shoes or carried my burdens.  No one's life has been changed more by losing Bill than my family's has.  Our kids, though, are who suffer the most.  I beg for love and grace and understanding for them.  They are amazingly brave and strong.

Just be here.  Without words even.  Just present and accepting.  Supportive and patient.  But silly and fun too.  Bill loved to have fun.  It's what I strive to do for them every day.  They are great kids--each one a part of Bill forever.

Dull. Flat.

I cleaned out our closet this weekend.  I'll be honest, it was not an easy task, but then I didn't think it would be.  I guess it was time though because anytime I would open Bill's side of the closet and look at his clothes hanging there it made me feel awful.  I left two shirts hanging up.  One that he was wearing the day he died and one of his favorites that I (stole) wore throughout my last two pregnancies.  Oh, and I also left the sweater that I knit for him last Christmas.  Someday, I'll use all of those shirts and pants and even the ratty old bathrobe to create lovely quilts for each one of the kids. All those old-man clothes that perfectly suited Bill, shoved haphazardly into boxes.  I felt like throwing up afterwards.

I'm feeling pretty sad now.  I just want to bury my head underneath the covers of our bed and stay there.  I want to sleep because when I'm asleep I forget.  And Bill is still with me in my dreams.  But I can't sleep or stay in bed so instead I work.  From sun up until sundown, and even then sometimes I don't stop.  When I'm busy I don't think.  Frankly, I'm so tired of thinking.  Thinking about what I regret, what I lost, what my future holds, what to do with the burden of responsibility I bear.  I think about being alone. I think about a lot of stuff.  Too much stuff.

I wonder if I'm really living or simply existing.  I think I'm just existing right now.  That's probably okay too.  I'm fearful that "simply existing" will become my only reality.  Almost like a bad habit that cannot be broken.  I feel old.  I feel like I've lost the sparkle, the shine, the glitter that illuminated my life.  I don't like it, I tell you. Maybe I should buy a pair of those sparkly Tom's shoes to add a little sparkle to my world.

Yeah, so it pretty much sucks.  I'm alone and missing Bill.  I'm trying to make some decisions about our family's future and I'm doing it alone.  I'm running hither and yon with kids and baseball and school and work and chores and I'm doing that alone too.  I think I used to be fun.

Dear Bill,

It's been almost three months since I talked with you so I thought I'd write a letter and let you know how things were going around here. I miss you everyday, all day long.  I'm always remembering little things that I want to tell you about.  I guess I still can.

The kids are doing pretty well.  Madeline is still working quite a lot and saving her money to start school in the fall.  She's leaning towards studying journalism--you know how good she is at writing so that's a perfect choice.   She's also in the middle of a bedroom redo that is going to require a trip to IKEA. I know how much you love IKEA.   She brought the bed you made for her back inside.  It still looks good and it's held up just fine.  You did a nice job!  Jack is busy, as usual.  He just modified the green trailer with new rails so he can haul more wood in it.  Yesterday he got up on the roof and cleaned the chimney for us.  Baseball seems to be good, though he's still hitting on the top of the ball or too far under it.  He's played flawlessly in center, never missing a ball.  He steps out of the box when the pitcher's taking too long, just like you taught him.  Gilly saw him do it and approved.  He weed-whacked around your grave tonight so it looks tidy.  I think he remembers all that you taught him.  Jon started ball too.  He's totally into it this year, as much as Jon can be.  He loves that Minecraft game and is always rambling on about his newest building projects.  It's all foreign to me!  He helped me spread bark dust out front by the mailbox today.  He's also dreaming about the little motorbike that Jonathan gave  him.  I'll make sure he's careful with it.  Oh, and there's still Legos all over the house.  And Sarah.  She's still Sarah.  She started playing T-ball tonight.  Please don't be mad that I'm letting her play.  She really wanted to.  She won't leave my side right now, not even in the mornings when I go out to feed the animals.  Or when I get up to go potty at night.  Or when I take the laundry out to the furnace room.  She said she's afraid I'll leave  her.  Pretty understandable, right?  I'm trying to be patient with her, but you know how hard patience is for me.  Oh, and she's reading really well.   Hasn't lost anymore teeth yet.  She's sleeping next to me right now.

Your dumb cow isn't pregnant.  She's faulty, just like your white chickens from Tractor Supply.  I think Bud will work some of his magic on her soon and there will hopefully be a calf next spring.  I know you were hoping for a calf this year.  We got 5 new chicks to replace the current ladies.  Red Leghorns and Wellsummers, I think.  I've got them in the little coop you built last year.  Once the weather gets warmer I'll move them out of the Fire Hall and next to the big coop.  I guess I'll have to learn how to butcher now.  Gross.  Remember your discussion with John about bees?  Well, he brought over a new hive and is going to split the bees he caught in the orchard last summer for us.  I know how you always wanted bees.  I'm a little nervous about it but I guess I'll learn about bees now too.  Vader and Cricket are good.  Cricket is loving farm life and keeps up with us when we hike.  Karl is still living in the woodshed eating various vermin.  Sarah helps me take care of all the animals in the mornings.  A real farm girl.

I'm working on getting things crossed off your list.  I spread two yards of mulch today but probably need about four more to get everything covered.  Brian delivered it.  We talked about baseball and Shannon sent a pie.  Dan is coming next week to install that darn fan in the bathroom.  I'll try to get the pond redone sometime this summer.  And, yes, I'll clean the fence.  I know how you hate for it to be so filthy.

I'm not baking anymore.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I made a lemon meringue pie last weekend but ended up throwing the leftovers away today.  There's just no one to eat any of that stuff.  At least not with the same gusto that you did.  My cookie jar sits empty now.  Sorry.

I'm going to have to clean out your side of the closet.  I'm not looking forward to that chore.  I hope you don't mind that I'm going to cut up all of your clothes (even your favorite Filson vest) and make quilts for all the kids with the fabric.  I'm even going to use your nasty old bathrobe!  I might keep that one Pendleton shirt though because it still smells like you.  Remember when your Grandma gave you Grandpa Bill's underwear?  Maybe I should give yours to someone.  Maybe not.

Sometimes I get mad at you for leaving me here by myself with so much responsibility and so much work.  I worry that I'm doing things wrong and that I can't possibly be an adequate replacement for you.  I'm afraid I'll mess things up.  You know I wasn't supposed to do this on my own, right?  What I wouldn't give to have you here, making your messes and talking about your politics and listening to your operas.  I'd love to hear you snore or read one of your dorky stories to me.   There are so many things we didn't ever get to do.  I get pretty sad about it all.  But, I still get up in the morning and I still laugh at off color jokes.  I still work hard and try hard and hope to make you proud.  It's just hard.

I love you.
Julie

P.S. Ruger loves your hat and wears it every day.  That makes me smile and I know it makes you smile too.