Thoughts on Common Metaphors, Similes & Idioms (Not to be confused with common idiots.)

I should be more specific. These are in fact, my thoughts, on common metaphors. In an effort to filter my at times unrequested thoughts and opinions on matters at hand, I have grown accustomed to having conversations with myself. First, I have a thought and then, I respond to my thought. Typically in agreement with my original thought, but at times I debate the alternative, or play the devil’s advocate as they say.

The Devil’s advocate? Why is it that an opposing view to the original point of view is so easily associated with the Devil himself (or herself, however you choose to see it)?

In out lining potential chapters for a book that I am writing, I sat thinking of catchy titles for each chapter. Wanting to not only use phrases that would fit the subject matter that would fill the pages but would also resonate with the reader and draw them in. One that kept sticking out to me was, The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree. Quite frankly, it often does. Literally and figuratively speaking. When an apple falls out of a tree it is prone to roll or bounce on the ground in any direction, which could potentially take it far from the tree. Figuratively as the metaphor is truly meant for, I can think of multiple instances in my life alone where I would say the apples fell far, very far from the tree. I have known children raised in day-to-day dysfunction who grew up and found a way to not only be successful, but organized, on time, and high functioning in almost every aspect of life. I have also known first hand, individuals that had wonderful and only slightly dysfunctional (because let’s be honest we all have some degree of dysfunction in our family) upbringings who have turned out to be abusive, narcissistic, dictators unlike anyone in their family. They are more like the rotten apple that grew on a kumquat tree. All of the kumquat are sitting back wondering how in the heck that apple began to grow on their tree. I could go on, and name names, personal and celebrity to prove my point, but I won’t. You know who you are.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down? Other than Mary Poppins I don’t know anyone whose mother or care giver handed them a spoonful of sugar when forcing them to take castor oil, cough syrup, or any other prescribed meds that we were forced to take when we were sick. Have you tasted fish oil? Just a tablespoon a day helps reduce your chance of cancer, reduce anxiety, depression and increase brain and heart function. No amount of sugar is helping the gawd-awful stench and taste of fish oil leave your mouth, not before and not after. Mix it into your morning yogurt or smoothie. What? And destroy my love of perfectly delicious foods that will hereafter taste like fish oil when I have them for breakfast. By the way, none of the claims for the benefits fish oil have actually been verified.

You made your bed, lay in it? First of all who lays in their bed after they have just made it? You take the time and effort to get the sheets smooth and straight, then you fold the corners at just the right angle like mom taught you to do. The last thing you are going to do after completing that is jump in and mess it up! What people are actually saying is that you created this mess, now  you get to live through it. What they should say is, You wet your bed, now go lay in it. Wouldn’t that be more accurate?

A stitch in time, saves nine. I imagine if I google that I will find the meaning. I think a cliché, or saying should stand for itself. If I am going to use it on the regular then when I say it, I and the recipient should be able to make sense out of the meaning straight away. A penny spent from a dime, saves nine. Now that I would understand. If I spend less than what I have then I am actually saving more than I am spending.

Slippery as a snake. Anyone who says this has never touched a snake. Now mind you, I have not touched all breeds of snakes in the world and thus may be mistaken, but the snakes I have touched are anything but slippery. Snake skin is smooth or scaly, rough more so than soft and typically dry. I suppose snakes that live in the rain forest or tropics are at times wet. I have not, as of yet, felt a slippery or slimy snake. Sneaky as a snake, now that would make more sense to me, as I believe snakes tend to slither upon the ground quietly in an effort to not be heard nor seen. That way they are able to sneak up on their prey and take them quite literally by surprise and then swallow them whole.

Like taking candy from a baby. Okay, who made that up? Taking candy from a baby is anything but easy. And yet, when used the speaker is referring to how easily something was done. Not only is taking candy from a baby not easy it also isn’t enjoyable. No sooner have you taken the candy and said baby erupts in a loud fit which includes, wailing, shreeking and other annoying vocalizations of their displeasure. If you find it fun, well than you my friend are sick.

I could care less, this one I have always said wrong, er I mean correctly. If I could care less, than I am quite possibly caring too much about whatever it is I want you to think I do not really care all that much about. And what am I doing caring what you or anyone else thinks about whatever it is in which I do or do not care all that much about? I should simply speak my peace, my mind about whether or not I like, love or hate it and let that be that. You may think whatever you like, I couldn’t care less.

I imagine there are more, but my eyes and my brain are tired. Sleep is calling me and my bed yells all the louder. And so, I say good-night to you and to me.



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(Re) Defining Family

I remember when my daughter was in the sixth grade almost as though it were yesterday. That year was monumental in so many ways for her, for me and for our family going forward. I’d like to think it had a lasting impact on her teacher as well. In the middle of her fourth grade year our little family of three broke apart. Up until that time I had home-schooled her and she had attended what was known as Edmonds Cyber School or the Edmonds Home School Resource Center. As much as I loved teaching my daughter it was not purely for the love of teaching that I had home schooled her for that long. We were stuck in an abusive relationship. One where he controlled most everything that I did and reminded me on a daily basis that what I thought and said did not matter, unless of course I was agreeing with him. Ironically he thought I was very good or at least adequate at teaching his daughter. He was insistent that she not attend public school. His position was that public school would teach her horrible things and she would turn out to be a delinquent. And so I home schooled her year after year at his insistence.

When I ran with my daughter I had to work full-time in order to provide for us. That meant enrolling her in the local public school. My daughter was happy for the change, at first. She had longed for daily interaction with others her age and had a desire to learn whatever she could. School provided endless opportunity for both. The second half of 4th grade went quite well. Going to school each day was so new and wonderful. Thankfully she made a couple of great girl friends right away. As we rolled into 5th grade more changes had happened for her and I. The newness of being just the two of us had worn off. I began dating which had positive and negative effects on my daughter. As much as she longed for her mother to be happy and to be loved she also longed for these feelings for herself as well. The first man I dated was a very kind man who treated me very well. While he was very different from her father and in no way abused her, it became very clear to her and to me that he didn’t love her. Once I realized this it was very easy for me to end that relationship. One thing I had made clear when I took her and left was that going forward we were a team. Any man in our lives either loved both of us or they got neither of us. Crazy? Unrealistic? Maybe, but that is how it was going to be.

My daughter started 5th grade with a renewed confidence that she was in fact mine, 24/7, 365 days each year, and I was good with that. At no time did I wonder when her father would take her for a weekend or a holiday. She was not a burden to me nor something I needed a break from. She was my world, and nothing or nobody was every going to change that. Not now, not ever again.

As the newness of being just the two of us wore off and we settled into our day-to-day routines, along with it came the idea that her father did not want her. No matter how many times I told her that it wasn’t about him not wanting her, but more accurately him being incapable of being who she needed and wanted, the feeling of being unwanted settled into her heart and her mind. Having grown up myself feeling cheated of what a little girl deserves in the daddy-daughter relationship department, I understood these feelings all too well. And yet, I also had to acknowledge that my life was not her life and hers had elements, both good and bad, that mine did not.

Her 5th grade teacher happened to be a man. When I first became aware of this my heart skipped a beat. Would having a man in charge over her on a daily basis stir up the feelings of fear and pain that she had lived with and through? Would she be able to ask questions, raise her hand and speak out in class, or would she turn inward and return to being shy and quiet. It wasn’t long into the school year when the phone on my desk at work rang with a call from the school nurse. My daughter was not feeling well and needed me to come pick her up. I did, only to find no sooner were we home and she was fine. Her spirits lifted, the tears dried up and she wanted to play a game or go on a bike ride with me. This happened several times over before I realized a pattern was setting in and we had a problem that was not health related, at least not physical health.

I decided to set a meeting with her teacher to check in with him on how things were going. After sending him an email he set an appointment and suggested the school counselor join us for the meeting. As the three of us chatted I shared with them what my daughter and I had lived through and what had brought us to this school. Then I shared with them what I saw was happening with her in needing me to come get her more days that not. She had also started to cry in the mornings begging me not to make her go to school. Not long into our meeting it became clear that it had little to do with school or the teacher and seemingly more to do with being away from me. I shared my concern with the teacher about him being male, but assured him that honestly I felt she liked him as her teacher.

Together we made a plan of action we hoped would help get her through this difficult time while assuring her that we were all there on her side, helping her as best we could, however we could. The teacher suggested that each day when I brought her to school that I bring her into the classroom right to her desk. He would then come be by her side as I left assuring her that he was there to support her. He would also let her know that at anytime she could come to his desk to talk to him or ask him to go to the office to see the counselor. The counselor suggested that I come to lunch for a while and eat with my daughter. When it was time for me to go back to work if she struggled I was to bring her into the counselor’s office for the good-byes and she would then transition her back to class after I left. We worked together! It took several weeks of this plan of action, and I nearly fell apart more than once wondering if it would ever work. Through our efforts and seeing an outside therapist as well, my daughter gained her confidence in us and in her self to overcome this fear of separation. Together we showed her that she was our priority. I was so thankful for how they both came along side me, as a mother, and helped me help my daughter. To this day that teacher is my daughter’s all time favorite teacher.

During that year I began dating another man. This time I was even more cautious, even giving him a list of the Nine Things Required of Dating Me. Seriously, I did! Again, I had friends who told me I was crazy to think I could ask for so much. Number 9 was simply this: A man who would love my daughter as his own. One who would be a role model of what a husband, partner, father, friend should be so that she would know what to look for in her future mate. I told him if any of the items on my list, especially number 9, scared him, then we should not proceed with dating. He assured me they were not scary and for him, doable. That year and as time went on my daughter and I learned that we had found the real deal. A man with a heart bigger than any we had ever known. One who loved my daughter as his own, something we both longed for. And she and I both found that we loved him right back.

Sixth grade rolled around and my daughter settled into her new classroom at the middle school next door to the elementary school she had been attending in the Edmonds School District. The past year had ended so well, she found she was still riding the wave of excitement in learning the previous teacher had help her re-ground herself in as she kicked off the new year. Many days after classes ended she would walk across the campus and waltz into her 5th grade teacher’s classroom to say hi, check in and spend time before I picked her up or she caught the bus home. Life was moving forward, the pain of the past was healing and we were happy. My daughter was once again thriving in school and I was breathing more easily.

One afternoon she sat in my office after school working on some homework while I finished up my end of the day tasks. She had come in from the bus with a scowl on her face and her lower lip in a pout. Not wanting to get into it at work, I had given her a quick hug and sent her off to the kitchen for an after school snack. I had caught her peeking around the corner at me a time or two vying for my attention. A knot began to form in the pit of my stomach as thoughts of the previous year wiggled their way to the forefront of my mind. I shook them off like rain drops off an umbrella refusing to give way to the notion that we were heading back down that spiral again. I wrapped up my work, gathered my things and called to my daughter that it was time to go.

We both settled into the car and buckled our seatbelts before I put the car into gear and began the short drive home. The silence was palpable one stop light after another. Without turning to look at her I asked what was on her mind.

She inhaled and the air caught in her throat as she swallowed back a sob that was determined to escape. My head snapped to glance at her and then back at the road. Giant alligator tears were spilling over her lower lashes and rolling down her cheeks. I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car.

“Honey, What in the world is going on?”

“My teacher said I can’t write about Tom.” [Sob, inhale, sob]

“What are you talking about? Of course you can write about Tom! I mean, why are you writing about Tom?”

“Our assignment in writing class is to write about our family. I started mine the other day. We had to turn in our rough draft for her to take a look at. She called me up to her desk and said that I can’t write about Tom. When I asked her why, she said because he isn’t my family. She said I have to write about my real dad! Oh mom, I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay, hold on a second. Let me get this straight, the assignment is to write about your family, is that right?”

“Yes, but she said I have a dad so I have to write about him.”

“Family is who you live with, who is raising you. That may be your mom and your dad, it may be just your mom or just your dad, it could be your grandparents, foster parents, adopted parents, or even friends. Who is she to say who your family is?”

I have to insert her that I was growing more and more livid by the moment. After all the two of us had been through up to this point in our lives, after what we had lived through for the 10 years before I had taken my daughter and ran, after what we had overcome during the previous school year alone, I was not about to have one teacher’s view of what is and what is not family set my daughter back to square one.

“Hey sweetie, take a breath, a deep one. Okay, now another. Yep, that’s it, How about another? Good. Now, look at me. This is going to be fine. Just fine. You are going to keep writing that assignment and you are going to write about whomever you feel is your family, be that me, Tom, The Gallaughers, The Carrolls, Auntie Dawn (who is not biologically her aunt).”

“But mom, she said I couldn’t! I don’t want to fail the assignment.”

“You are not going to fail the assignment. I will go meet with your teacher tomorrow at school. She and I will have a little chat about the assignment and about family. Don’t you worry, everything is going to be just fine. We’ve got this!”

I reached over and gave my girl a quick squeeze letting her know that was that. Then I put that car back into gear and headed home to have dinner with our family.

The next morning I called the school and requested a meeting with the teacher. I told her I was available to come over to the school that day at anytime. I was invited to come early that morning while the kids were in music. Not wasting a minute, I jumped in my car and headed to the school. I parked my car in the parking lot, took a minute to breathe calmly and said a quick prayer for composure, patience and grace, before heading to the classroom for my meeting.

I walked in and found the teacher sitting at her desk with a chair opposite her waiting for me. I greeted her with a smile and thanked her for seeing me on such short notice. We shook hands and sat down.

“I wanted to check in with you on an assignment the kids are working on. A writing assignment about Family?”

“Oh yes, the students are supposed to write about their families. I know your daughter is struggling with this assignment, but I have made it clear that the requirements are quite simple. We will have time for creative writing as the year goes on, but this assignment is simply about the students family, their heritage so to speak. It’s a good way for us all to get to know each other and for the kids to follow the directions about keeping it to the topic at hand. I do it every year with my students.”

“Uh-huh, I see. Okay, well actually my daughter doesn’t have an issue with the assignment. She is completely fine with writing a paper about her family.”

“Oh great! I am so relieved to hear that. I didn’t want this to become a big deal. She’s  good student. I’m glad to hear she will be able to complete the assignment after all.”

“Yes, she will. In fact she is nearly done with it. I looked it over last night with her. She has done a terrific job of sharing who her family is, myself, Tom and her have a wonderful family home life and she looks forward to sharing that with you and the class.”

“Oh, I’m sorry there is a misunderstanding.”

“No I don’t think there is.”

“Yes, there must be. You see this assignment is to be about the student’s family. It is only to include, their biological parents, their mom and dad, siblings, grandparents, etc. It’s just about family. In the future she will have a chance to write about other things, but this one is quite specific.”

“I see. I want to be certain that I am hearing you correctly. My daughter is writing an assignment about her Family. And you have determined that she and the other students may only include themselves, their biological parents, siblings and grandparents in what they call Family?”

“Yes, that is it. I know she is fond of your boyfriend, Tom, but he is your boyfriend. He is not her Family.”

“Uh-huh. I see. In the way you see Family, he is not her Family. I can see how some people might say that. Those who are closed-minded to think that Family is made up of blood, and only consists of the people you are related to by birth. I can’t help but think there are so many other situations out there. Not all children are brought up in a home where there is a father and a mother and a kid or two or three. Homes and the families that live in them vary greatly. I wonder what would happen if a student had let’s say, two mothers and no father at all and wanted to write about that. Would you have a problem with that? Would you tell the student and their two mothers that they were in fact not a family? Or what if they had two fathers? Would you look at those two fathers and ask them to choose which one of them the student could write about as their family, because surely one of them was not actually the student’s father and thus not their family? And if you did in fact state that to such a family, er I mean couple raising one of your students, how do you think they might respond? I imagine they may decide to have a conversation with the Principal and quite possibly the District about your definition of what is what is not Family.”

“I didn’t mean that couples raising a child together are not in fact a couple.”

“You didn’t? Because it seems to me you did when you told my daughter who she could and could not write about as her family.”

“I just mean, she has a father, she should write about him.”

“I am going to let that go. That is an entirely different conversation and one that quite frankly, I am not having with you. The assignment is for each student to write about their family. My daughter is very clear on who her family is. I wanted to come here today to make sure that we are all on the same page on what family is and the fact that it varies quite greatly. If we are not on the same page then we will need to have a further conversation with the principal in order to resolve the issue at hand.”

“Oh no, I think we are fine here. I think we can agree that families vary.”

“Wonderful. Just so we are clear, families vary and my daughter will be writing about her family as she chooses and determines them to be. And she will not be graded in a negative way if and when the structure of her family does not meet the scenario that you had laid out in the required dynamic of the family as you see it?”

“That is correct, she may write about whomever she would like.”

“Wonderful. I appreciate your time. I’m glad we had this chat.”

I stood, shook her hand once again and left the room. As I walked down the hallway, I saw my daughter in a line of kids coming towards me. I gave her a wink, a wave and a smile that said, ‘I told you we got this.’ She smiled back at me as she skipped into class and took her seat.

In no way did I plan to fight all of my daughter’s battles for her. As the years went by she found time and time again when she needed to stand up for herself. And other times she found herself facing the consequences of her own actions or lack thereof when it came to school assignments. But in this case when the battle was greater than what the average 6th grade child should have to face, when it was something that struck a personal cord with all my daughter had been through in regards to family, and due to the fact that I felt this teacher, this adult, had a small and closed-minded view of just what a family is, I felt it was my job to step in and square things away. Honestly, I felt I did the teacher a huge favor! Here I was, a single white mom with a boyfriend that my daughter considered family. No harm, no foul. If our situation had been different in one or more of the ways I had challenged her on she may have received a lot more than a simple parent teacher conference. Stepping off of my high horse, I truly hope that it opened her eyes to the students around her then and in the future that may not fit her old school mold of what family is. Just as my daughter and I were growing and changing, I hope she was too.

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Live Out Loud

My post yesterday has been running through my head. I am in the process of writing a memoir. Part of that process is reading other people’s memoirs and articles about memoirs. One interesting point that has stuck out to me in my reading went something like this:

“If a family consisted of four siblings and all four siblings wrote a memoir about their childhood, you would most likely end up with four very different books. ”

That leads to the question, Who is lying? The article went on to say that quite possibly, none of them are in fact lying. They each have their recollection of what their upbringing was. Each have cherished or not so cherished memories, a different perspective or point of view of holidays celebrated, family vacations and daily life. Who’s to say that one’s perception or memory is more right than another?

Over the years I have shared different parts of my story. Sometimes in private conversations with friends, or with strangers when the opportunity arose, or in a group setting such as a teen girls group or women’s group. Each time I have shared the response has been positive and taken me by surprise. More than once a woman has come to me after to share her story or tell me that what I ha to say has inspired her to move forward in a direction in her life that she had been contemplating but lacked confidence or the strength to go ahead, take a risk on herself. Often I have been asked, why haven’t you written a book?

Years ago, I contemplated writing a book and even began the first few pages. As the words hit the paper shame clouded my view and covered my head. The heaviness overwhelmed me. Through much counseling, soul-searching and heart healing I came to a place where my past no longer brought on shame, nor did it bring on anger, instead it filled me with confidence. As powerful as that felt it was also intimidating. Where had this inner strength come from? Was it there all along, only stifled, pressed down, hidden under the pain and shame? Or was it new? A result of overcoming all that had suppressed and oppressed me over the years of my life. Whatever it was, and however it came to be, I welcomed it with open, albeit reserved arms.

No sooner had I come to grips with who I was and who I was becoming to be when I found my body had succumbed to cancer. Just as I had welcomed this new-found strength I welcomed the cancer within my body. That may sound strange to you. For me, it seemed right. Cancer was a way of slowing myself down. After an abusive childhood, I entered an abusive marriage at the young age of 17 1/2 years old. It took just over 10 years to admit, come to grips with and then find a way out of that relationship, not only for me, but for the small innocent child we had brought into the world. Then it took years of living life, going to therapy, and plenty of conversations with myself and God to bring to the point of self forgiveness and empowerment to use my past to help others if at all possible.

When cancer hit, I thought, “Okay, this is the perfect opportunity for me to take some time to rest, reflect and write.” Little did I know that there would be much rest, a great deal of reflection and little to no writing. The writing I did do, centered around cancer and how I was doing. There were days that this brought me down. I battled with my brain as I wanted to use every minute of this ‘down time’ to the best of my ability. I’d love to say I learned quickly, but honestly it took a good portion of my treatment to get through my thick skull that this was to be a time of rest and reflection, a time to soak up the love and affection of friends and family, something I always had a hard time doing. That alone was therapy for me.

As my treatment ended and I saw the light at the end of rest tunnel, I became afraid. Had I really wasted the time that had been given to me? It seemed as though I had. I had nothing to show for it in the way of evidence of having used the time wisely. Thankfully, many good friends, my husband and my daughter told me over and over again, I had done with the time as I should have. I had cherished every moment with them, allowed my body to rest, spent time with friends new and old, near and far, sitting, chatting, listening and soaking in their love and affection through word, food and deed. I have come to accept that my time of cancer, treatment, surgeries and healing was for more than physical healing, it has also attributed to my mental and emotional well-being as well.

As I have returned to the ‘real world’ or life post cancer, of work and family activities, I do so with a renewed heart and an even greater balance of life. I love my work in real estate, I love my time with family and friends, and I love my time writing. As I write I wonder at times what life would be like if we were more real, more honest with who we are. If you know me well, you have heard me say, “Did I just think that out loud?” The idea that my honesty, my truth would come out of my mouth and not be held in, in order to keep the peace or be politically correct. I am not referring to saying things that are hurtful to others without filter or compassion. I am speaking of saying the things that are held back when they should be said, seek justice, love mercy, walk humbly. Stand up for what is right. Speak up when an injustice is occurring rather than watching silently, shaking your head as you walk away. Or sharing your mistakes, your past, your failures as a parent, or wife, mother or father, sister or daughter in order to help another realize they are not alone.

And so it is with that heart, that I write and I share. Not to shame anyone, but to help others, whether that be to help them find an answer, or help them realize they are not alone. I am here. Real. Raw. Living. Thinking. Writing.

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I Don’t Want to Be Like Him

A hard reality I have had to face, I am more like my father than I would like to be. Many times I have told myself in one of the many conversations I have had with myself over the years, I will not be like my father. I will parent differently. I will show compassion, unconditional love, patience, forgiveness, empathy, tenderness in the most difficult of moments, and so on. And while I have parented in a very different way than my father, I have at times been just like him. So much so, that as I stood there looking into my child’s eyes consumed with rage I have seen myself, the little girl I once was, looking back at me.

It happened today. My son stood there looking back at me, his nostrils flaring open and then closed as he sucked in the oxygen around him. I was fuming, standing there towering over him, daring him to not listen to me. His eyes locked with mine. Click. I saw myself looking back at me, and yet I knew it was my son. In that moment I knew exactly how he was feeling. Part of me, the part enveloped in anger, the part that felt all-powerful, wanted to keep going. It wanted to turn up the faucet of over flowing verbal sewage that was blasting down on his head. The other part of me, the little girl who knew what this felt like, the part that knew he had done nothing wrong, nothing more than any child might do, and knew that this struggle was over control and power. That part of me inhaled the oxygen that would flood my brain with common sense, compassion, patience, and clear the stupidity that was clouding my judgment.

Our eyes still locked, I exhaled. My body moved towards my son as my arms wrapped around him and drew him in for a hug. Tenderness from my body spread to his and he melted against me. His arms encircled my body as his head rest on my chest. We two became one. I held him there for many moments allowing what had transpired to be healed and washed away.

“I love you buddy. I’m sorry I was angry. It’s really no big deal, you just need to go back outside and ask your friend nicely not to do to you what you did to him. How would you feel if he had thrown show at your head? Go out there and talk to him. I’ll watch and if it doesn’t go well, I’ll come out and help you. I think you can take care of it.”

“Love you too, mom. I’ll go try.”

His hands released me as I gave him one more squeeze. I watched as he headed back outside. The door closed behind him. Cautiously he walked towards his friend, “Hey, I’m sorry I hit you on the head with that snow. I didn’t mean to. Are you okay?”

“It’s okay and yeah, I’m fine.”

“You want to play lazer tag instead?”

“Yeah, let’s go!”

Off they went, problem solved, friendship reunited.

I turned back to what I was working on breathing a sigh of relief. For a few moments I had been him, just like him. Zero to 100 on the anger scale, with no room for compassion. This time, like others in the past, something came in and took over bringing me back to reality. As much as I don’t want to be like him, I need to remember him and how I was when he was like that to me, to help me be the person I wished he had been. One day, one moment at a time.


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A Sticker Back in Time

No sooner had I lay the sticker on the window sill and I was back in my grandmother’s kitchen. Her kitchen window that looked out upon the back yard amidst the crowded view brought on by vases of dandelions, wishing weeds, and other long since died flowers. Gifts from her many grandchildren, all of which Grandma cherished. The window sill itself covered from edge to edge with vases, rocks – some painted, some not, stickers and other treasures. All framed in by simple cotton curtains that Grandma had sewn herself.

The cupboards were a dark wood, darker still around the edges where they were opened time and time again. In each cupboard resided an array of colorful dishes, burnt orange, avocado green, lemon yellow and chocolate brown ceramic mixing bowls in one. Tupperware containers with an assortment of lids, silver metal bowls, clear glass bowls, all used for the many foods that Grandma made for breakfast, lunch and dinner, whether it be for herself, us grandkids or for when she had c’mpany. The silverware drawer a hodge podge of utensils where a complete matching set was a treasure to be found. Many of the matching pieces long since buried in the backyard where the pirates kept their treasure hidden from the scoundrels that came searching.

The vinyl floor beneath my feet bearing the evidence of a well lived in and loved home. A place where one was always welcome no matter the reason, the length of stay, nor the conversation or lack thereof you were to give. Crumbs from graham crackers scattered in a trail leading to the back door, drips of bacon grease from the stove to the kitchen counter where an emptied pickle jar now full with hardened grease awaited to be used for fried eggs, brussels sprouts, and other things that tasted better when fried in bacon grease. A red stain, most likely Kool-Aid, that would never come clean, not even if Grandma were to get down on her tired well used knees to scrub it.

The washer and dryer at the end of the kitchen covered with baking pans, cookie sheets, and more bowls looking for a home, waiting to be used. I look closer, there on the right were two pans being used. Covered with linen dish towels. Quietly sneaking over, not making a sound as my sock feet slid one step length at a time, I lift the towel to reveal pies. The steaming warmth wafts the heavenly smell of freshly baked strawberry rhubarb into my nostrils as I inhale, deep, slow.

A noise startles me and I glance to the window in the back door. I sweep back the curtain, also made by my grandma but with a fabric that does not match the one over the sink. I see myself, a younger me all of about 8 years old. My hair is a much darker auburn red, thick, bushy, frizzy, not curly but not straight, a mass of deep fire framing my freckled face. I am running breathless across the back yard being chased by my cousin, Mikey. My sister, Lisa, and my other cousin, Bobby, are both running in the other direction. I dash through the clothes drying on the line just barely out of Mikey’s reach. A smile spreads across my face as the warmth of remembering time with my cousins wells up from within.

I turn and walk through the kitchen to the living room knowing what I will see. The TV is on with the sound turned down low, almost off. There is my grandma in her rocking chair with two large bowls vying for space in her generous lap. Her slippered feet just touching the ground gently nudge the floor to keep the rhythm of the rocker going as she snips the ends of green beans fresh off the vine from her backyard garden. The trimmed beans being prepared for canning. I listen closely so I can hear the song coming from my grandma’s mouth.

“Blessed assurance Jesus is mine!

Oh, what a foretaste of Glory Divine!

Heir of salvation, purchased by God

Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood

Oh, this is my story, this is my song,

Praising my Savior, all the day long;

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my Savior, all the day long……”

I can hear her voice, the one that soothed my fears, my worries, my broken heart, lulled me to sleep, and filled my life with so much unconditional love. The safe haven of my childhood remains in my mind and in my heart.

I look again and I see the sticker on the counter next to my kitchen window that overlooks my backyard, so different than my grandma’s. My counter is clear of dirty dishes that I just washed and put in the drying rack. As I look around I see a few objects that at times I think of putting away to remove the clutter. A ceramic dish that holds my rings created by the young hands of my son, painted in shades of green and red, it does not fit the decor but it fits my heart. An empty bottle formerly filled with Smoking Loon Cabernet, now holds lamp oil, a wick threaded through a cork, the memory of a weekend away with the one who would one day become my husband, the father of my son and the adopted father of my first-born. A noise pulls me from my thoughts to look out my kitchen window upon my own backyard.

There I find my son running through the yard, a soccer ball at his feet. The neighbor boy, a few years younger than he, eagerly trying to steal the ball away before Michael can score a goal. He slides and they both tumble to the ground in a fit of laughter. A smile spreads across my face as new memories fill my very being.



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Do as I Do, Not as I Say

How often do we give an instruction to a child, our child or someone else’s child that we have influence over, that in actuality we do not follow ourselves? I was raised by two Christian parents. Married for over 35 years before they both passed away. They never divorced although they had plenty of reasons that would have satisfied most anyone’s curiosity and conviction as to a justifiable divorce. They stayed true to their vows, at least that is what everyone thought that sat at their funerals, separated by only a matter of months. Many good memories, anecdotes and accolades were shared as guests, friends, family and co-workers, reminisced about each of them at their perspective memorial service.

I sat their listening at my mother’s funeral with tears pouring down my cheeks brought on by the memory of who she was to them, of who I wished she had been for me. Believe me, I loved my mother. I longed for many more years with her. I felt cheated out of time I assumed I would have with her and only her when my father passed. The biggest problem lay in the fact that she passed first and far too soon. The memories shared expressed who my heart knew my mother was, the love she had to give, the attention and generosity of time, talent and compassion. The unconditional understanding she had for those around her. I knew that is who she was, had always known this. And yet, the thought kept creeping into my mind again and again although I tried to brush it off, that they didn’t know her, not all of her.

I sat at my father’s memorial and listened as people spoke about him and the ways he had touched their lives. Most if not all commending him for his tenacious spirit that never quit even under the weight of many health set backs year after year that were debilitating, life changing and never-ending. And all I could think as I sat there was, that they didn’t know him. Not how I knew him.

Even before Facebook my family, like many others I am sure, had mastered the art of putting on a good face. Posting only the happy moments of our life for all to see. Anything else, anything disparaging, anything questionable, of poor taste, that would leave a sour taste in your mouth or worse yet make you vomit, was hidden, left unsaid. On any given Sunday we would dawn our best, put on our freshly shined fake patent leather shoes, and walk into church, mom and dad hand in hand, each of us kids with a smile or at least a smirk on our faces. I should probably note (and commend) my older brothers that there did come a time that they finally refused this ruse. Our parents swayed and allowed them to stay home rather than stir the pot and cause a scene at church. Although I never went to work with my parents, I can imagine the conversations between them and their co-workers as they shared tales of their families. Oh, the webs they must have woven, beautiful and intricate in design to show off the cohesive and loving family they created with their own words.

As a child I was told a magnitude of times enduring countless hours of church, Christian school and conversations at home, to tell the truth.

Thou shalt not lie.

Put on the full armor of God……Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist….

You shall not give false testimony [lie] against your neighbor.

For the Lord your God detests anyone who does these things, anyone who deals with dishonesty.

The truth shall set you free!

Just tell the truth, you will feel better if you do.

Tell the truth…. We may be disappointed but if you lie you will be sinning.

Confession is good for the soul.

On, and on, the teaching went. Tell the truth. And yet, as I sit here and reflect as I have done over and over again, so much of my upbringing and years of my first marriage were nothing more than lies. Outright lies. I was lied to. I was lied about. I listened as lies were told. I listened as my family was told by their Pastor to lie. I listened as the truth was withheld in order to protect the family, the church, anyone they deemed in need of protection by those lies, themselves. I told lies to protect them, him, my daughter, me. I lied to be who others wanted, expected me to be. They taught me well.

Tell the truth, just not about this.

Tell the truth, just not now.

Tell the truth, about other things.

This truth would be better left unsaid.

Confess your sins, but do it in private.

Be honest in everything, except the things that are embarrassing, will hurt the church, will affect yours and our reputation.

Tell the truth….some other time.

Do as I Do, Not as I Say, Tell the truth, Just not today.





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My Favorite Place

Quite honestly I think I am still searching for my absolute favorite place. I enjoy elements of several different places that I think I would find myself saying, “Oh, this is my favorite place!” A hike through the woods to a hidden lake, a warm summer evening sitting and listening to live music outside, a Camaro cruise through the Arboretum, a picnic at the Ballard locks with friends and so many others come to mind. Up until just recently I would have said that Seabrook, WA was my favorite place. And maybe it is…

Tom and I have been going to Seabrook since before Michael was born, before we were married, before or just shortly after I had become a real estate broker. So much of our lives have happened or been discussed while staying at Seabrook. Seabrook is a small beach town on the Washington Coast just a mile away from Pacific Beach and only 20 minutes north of Ocean Shores.   And while there is something about the sound of the waves crashing onto the sand it isn’t so much the beach that draws our family to Seabrook time and time again. As much I liking walking barefoot in warm squishy sand the Washington coast is windy and cold more often than not which doesn’t lend to a lot of time strolling the beach barefoot.

When we are Seabrook life as we know it comes to a stand still. On our very first trup to Seabrook Tom and I quickly found the silence was more than being away from the hubbub of the city life, it had to do with the lack of cell service too. We found that cell service was spotty at best especially if like me, you had Sprint. (No intentional diss on Sprint it just did not work there). A staunch business person would find this utterly annoying and down right frustrating. Quite possibly it would stop them from coming back. And yet, for us it was a deal maker rather than a deal breaker. A place where I could intentionally get away from my computer, phone, email and just be with my family is something to cherish. Don’t pinch me, this is one dream I do not want to wake from. For someone like myself who finds it difficult to not respond quickly to emails, text messages and calls this was absolutely perfect. An easy out for one who has a difficult time setting boundaries. I’m learning.

While the ocean may not call our names as the salty water crashes wave after wave onto the chilly sandy shore, there are many other things that draw us back time and time again. From the moment our truck rolls up the main street Michael and I are itching to jump out and head into the rental office. I am not sure who is more excited to get inside even though we both have two very different reasons for being excited. Michael anxiously searches about the rental office looking for sweets. A piece of salt water taffy just waiting for his little chubby dirty fingers to unwrap and cram into his mouth. The sweet taste of vacation. I on the other hand want the code. It used to be a key but now it is a code. The code gives you access to the home that you have rented. Key code in hand we drive our truck slowly down the Desperate House Wives-esque streets lined with sidewalks and families walking, couples hand in hand with little ones biking, scootering, running, strolling behind them ever a mess with sticky hands and sticky faces. Tom and I  glance at the picket fences ignoring the twinge of oh-this-is-so-not-for-every-average-American thoughts that we feel creeping in but instead allow the thoughts of impromptu soccer matches, corn hole, walks through the woods and time without cell phones to crowd in.

As the years have gone by, I believe we are at year number 11 going on 12 now, who opens the door to our temporary home away from home has changed. Michael is the one who wants to open the door these days. Code works, door flings open and his not so small anymore feet are running through the house room by room. “WHICH ONE IS MY ROOM?!?!” is shouted, repeatedly. I walk through the door much slower these days taking a long deep breath as I enter. I look around soaking up the furnishings, the colors, the décor, the home that will be our home for the next 3 nights. The space that we will unwind in, tune out of life and work while we tune into each other. So much has happened in this town. Not this home as we have stayed in many different homes. Some of these Seabrook homes hold very special memories indeed.

Central Park on Crescent Park is the home where Tom and I sat around the dining room table with our friends Tae and Vanessa. Laurie was about 14 years old at the time. Tae and Vanessa had two little ones of their own, Ashley and Josh. Their family had distinct plans of how they would grow. Two close together for 3 years of hellish sleepless nights and potty training. A couple years off to rejuvenate and then bam! 2 more littles back to back is the plan with 3 more hellish years. All in the name of sibling friendships. As much as it shocked me when I heard it, secretly I thought it was a brilliant plan. I was happy for them (assuming all clocks aligned and the next two came along as planned.) Their two littles and Laurie ran around the house and played games while us adults chatted after dinner. The dirty dishes could wait. The aroma of the bbq’d steak still lingering in the air drawing me back for just one more taste. Just across the grass of crescent park we could hear the crackle of the bon fire ramping up. Not long and the kids would be begging to go roast a marshmallow over the fire to melt with yummy chocolate and make a s’more.

Lingering at the table a bit longer we chatted about life as we know it and life going forward. The big question for Tom and I was, to have a baby or not to have a baby. When I met Tom I already had Laurie. She was 11 going on 12 years old. Laurie and I both fell in love with Tom and he in turn fell in love with both of us. Having not fathered other children and with Laurie being already nearly a teenager we just didn’t know if trying to conceive and adding a new little life to our family was the right thing to do. Laurie lobbied. We weighed the pros and cons along with the realistic possibility of whether we would even get pregnant or not. That night, sitting there in this lovely large open great room at a table with close friends, Tom and I made the decision to throw the birth control pills away and see if we in fact could get pregnant. We decided to try but agreed to accept the outcome should it be that we were unable to conceive naturally without any additional help. Not more than 40 days later I was pregnant with who would become, Michael.

We have brought countless friends with us to Seabrook wanting to share the magic that we have found. Many, practically all, end up going back with their families as their own traditions are started.  In 2012 we rented the Washington House and hosted Tom’s 50th birthday party with our kids and about 20 friends. What a wonderful and memorable weekend that was. And then in 2016 we rented Grandma Dorothy’s Cottage. Neighbor Dave and Kari came with us along with Michael and De’Vion. There was a very specific intent to this trip. I had decided it was time to shave my head. Having been diagnosed with cancer in January that year we knew once chemo began I would lose all of my hair. It was just a matter of time. Chemo was having it’s toll on me and my hair was quickly falling out. Rather than continue to let it happen I decided I wanted to shave it off. Seabrook seemed the right place for this to happen. We shave it down to just a buzz cut. That would make the rest of the falling out less painful and less difficult. Having Dave and Kari there kept it light hearted albeit emotional. Just what I needed. A safe place to laugh and cry at the same time. Seabrook holds so many moments in time for us. For a family always on the go it has been the one place we can slow down, stop and just be.

Unlike the fancy houses, the fancy décor, the fancy shops and restaurants that are cropping up, for us it is anything but fancy. It is back to the basic of just being together. Card games around the table. Walks through the woods and in the rain. Huge campfires on the beach for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. Slow strolls through the neighborhood gazing at the homes old and new while dreaming up what it would be like to just live here all the time. Knowing full well it would never work. Wanting only for this time of life being slower to simply never end.

As the years go by the town grows and the prices go up. We decided not to go to Seabrook this summer as the rental amount for 3 nights seemed outrageous. I found myself making comments that it was time to find a new place for our family to go to the ocean each year. And yet, as I sit here and types this all out I find myself wanting to close this computer page and open the Seabrook Rental Cottages page in order to plan our next trip. I am sneaking a peak at my calendar and determining where we can squeeze in a few days into the already quite booked last few weeks before school. I want to pick up and drive to the one place where we stop. I find my inner being, my soul, my heart,  my mind all reaching for the same thing. The road that leads not just to the ocean (although I do love the sounds of the ocean waves, seagulls and all), the road that leads to simply being together as a family. Walking, talking, playing, swimming, eating, laughing, silently being together in the one place that holds so many big and small moments of our lives.

I am not altogether sure I am ready to call it my favorite place. I hold out that I may find another more favorite place. For now I will call it the place that holds most of my favorite moments.

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