Scars and Gravel, Gravel and Scars

I've been the victim of attempted murder on more than one occasion. Mostly by people who claim they love me. And/or are related to me...

He doesn't look like a killer. But, that's what they always say.

In this particular case, I was horribly disfigured. It's a miracle I even leave the house. Because, my brother.

One afternoon we were unsupervised. It was cloudy. I had my pink and white jacket on. I'm guessing it was spring, probably right before my fourth birthday.

Remember, I'm a small town girl...

Out in front of Tyke's store there is a flat spot next to the road. The fertilizer companies would bring big tanks and stage them there - now, to keep people from killing themselves or others with the chemicals, they were up high with a ladder hanging down. If you were a fertilizer man, you had a ladder that connected to this and you could get up there. If you were a kid, you saw a challenge.

The challenge: ride your bike under the ladders. And not die. Or, more importantly, don't kill your passenger. Your much younger passenger.

'Hey Stace, you want to go on a ride?'

'Yeah!' Big brother fun times!

'Okay, do you know what duck means?'

'Yeah.' Geez, I'm almost four, but I'm not an idiot.

And so, trusting him with my little tiny human life, I got on the back of his bike. Or, more likely, he put me up there.

We were moving so fast! So fun!

So stupid and trusting.

'Okay Stace, you ready? When I say duck, you duck.'

'Ready!'

'Okay, Duck!'

'WHERE?!' I looked to the sky, searching for the duck. Or better yet, ducks. Ducks are fun.

Now, there's a sound. A distinct sound. It's the sound of aluminum hitting your skull. Followed by the more dull sound of your tiny body slamming onto the gravel. And, you see Jesus for a second or two. Then, well, then, you taste blood. That has trickled all the way down from your forehead.

In his defense, he did freak out at the sight of me. My sister looked a little disappointed. From what I could see. Through the blood.

So we walked to get help. Can't go home with a face like that. We were stupid, but not that stupid.

I hope that everyone has an Aunt Nancy in their life. An Aunt Nancy will save your bacon - numerous times. Most of them will involve an injury and blood. Sometimes stitches too. With the added benefits of a cookie to make you feel better after. In the least, she'll clean you up and carry you up the road to your mothers house. Better to walk in blood free. Lest we get ourselves killed.

And now, I have a scar on my forehead and an almost paralyzing fear of being hit in the face. As I age and wrinkle, the scar gets deeper and deeper.

I'll get it fixed at some point. And send him the bill.

Somehow able to laugh with the hideous scar.

Music and Time

So, here's the thing. I don't really know what years things happened in. As in the number. I just know songs. We grew up with music. Both the parents listened to a lot of music. There are songs that I hear that instantly take me back to a specific time. Often to an extremely vivid memory.

Most of my friends knew my 'dad'. They didn't really know he wasn't my biological father. He was at the things. All the things. The games, the prom, the stuff. That dude held his breath for a lot of soccer games. I got scored on anyway. But, he felt it too.

I remember my stepsister, who is as close to me as any blood relative, see me hug a man just before my sisters wedding...

"Who is that guy?"

"Um, that's my dad."

It as awkward for everyone. But, especially as we'd lived in the same house for a number of years and she had no idea what the other half of my DNA looked like.

He and I weren't close. Which is a bummer; I've heard he was a pretty fun guy.

And then, well, he died. Years after that, but still kind of youngish. 62. Just before my 31st birthday. Don't think that I haven't thought about being halfway through. A lot. I plan on living a lot longer than 62 years. But, I do whatever I want. No regrets. Just in case. Because, hell, it could all go boom tomorrow.

What's the whole reason for this ramble... and how the heck does it tie back to music? Well, stick with me...

Dad moved to Olympia in the early '80's. We went for a week or so. I have no idea how long we were there. But, he had this new channel. MTV. Music Television.

COOLEST. THING. EVER.

It was the summer  of '84. There are a number of songs that I can equate to that summer. Cars, Corey Hart... But, really, it was Huey Lewis. And the News.

'If This Is It' must have played 10 times a day that summer. You all remember the video. The family searching for the perfect place on the beach while hauling around a ton of stuff... as Huey is trying to call a girl. On a pay phone.

Went to see Huey the other night. Live. Felt like 1984. Except I drove myself there and had a couple beers. And Huey is 65. Other than that. It was just like being eight.

Took me back. Made me think about that summer. My dad. That was the last time I really spent with him. When I was eight. Saw him for a night two years later. And, for a few minutes at graduation and my sisters wedding. He was at my brothers wedding too. But, at that point I was pretty much pissed off. I marinated in anger for about 15 years, after all. I called the hospital when he had the first heart attack. Sent flowers. I wasn't a total ass. Just mostly.

Refused to go to the viewing. Sat there stunned at the funeral.

Lot of regrets there. Can't be fixed. Packing up the lessons learned. Vow to do better myself.

For now, I've got Huey, Corey and the Cars and that summer in 1984.

6th Grader?

Somehow there are some milestones that stick out more than others... For instance, I'm a little blown away that I have a sixth grader. Sixth grade. I started a new school for sixth grade - probably why it sticks out so much in my mind.

Kindergarten. So far away.

Anyway, the boy. Headed off to sixth grade in a couple days. I think I'm slightly in shock that I have a kid old enough for sixth grade. Might be easier if he was a really smart 8 year old that was going into sixth grade. Sixth grade. Sixth grade. It's just ringing in my ears. But he's the correct age and everything.

He's a tween. Which I think is code for asshole. But, they can't say asshole on television. So, it's tween. All in all, he's a pretty good kid. Any time I complain, my friends say, 'oh, but he's such a good kid'. Really? Because if he rolls his eyes at me one more time, I'm going to punch him in the head. Maybe. Probably not. Well, not a chance. I'd like to think that the look I give is enough. But those eyes keep on rolling.

Sixth grade is where things start to happen. Girls call. Or text. Or, I don't know. I really have no idea what happens these days. 'These days'. Because I'm suddenly old and out of touch with a tween. Who hates the clothes I buy and rides in the front seat and reaches over and changes the radio station. Holy hell.

So, anyway... he's headed off to sixth grade. I'll be white knuckling through the whole thing. And, really I don't have a lot for advice other than, 'most of the stuff you're going to run into is really stupid and will have no impact on your life'. Except in that moment, when it's the worst thing ever. EVER.

I'm pretty sure that's my job though. Just keep him going. Give terrible advice. Hold my tongue when I want to snap. Let him change the radio station. Show up. Be present. Even when some times I'm just pretending and have no earthly idea of what he's talking about.

Because the years are ticking away. There aren't many left. Six years from sixth grade... well, that's heading out the door.

Jesus.

I need a drink.

Teeth!

The tooth fairy assigned to our neighborhood is at best lazy, or at worst, has early onset dementia. She often forgets to drop by, is often without quarters and generally disorganized. She's even had to hide teeth in the cup holder on the treadmill - more than once - in an early morning panic.

Gappy.

So, this morning when I got a call from the boy that the girl had lost a fang (his words, not mine)... I mentally filed it away.


Don't forget the tooth fairy. Don't forget the tooth fairy.


Trouble is, he called me just as I was walking into a meeting. File instantly archived.

When I got home this afternoon the kitchen was a little bit of a disaster. Plates out, cereal spilled on the table, the usual summer day untidiness that I'm finding lately. Loaded the dishwasher, started it, we ate dinner... typical night.

Until about 9:30. When the girl, hysterical, screamed, "Where did the glass go that was right here?"

"You mean your milk cup? It's on the table."

"NO. The water glass that was right here!" Tears are now coming, she can hardly get the words out.

"There's a water glass in the living room on the coffee table. Is that it? I think someone is tired."

"I DON'T WANT WATER! My tooth was in it. RIGHT HERE!" She slams her little hand down on the counter.

Oh, shit. 

I quickly run over to the sink to see if it somehow survived the kitchen clean up.

She's now sobbing at the thought of the tooth having been washed down the drain. I assure her that the tooth fairy can find it in the drain. As long as she doesn't have a glass of wine later.

And then, light bulb.

FOUND!

Here's the thing. I don't like to waste water. When I come upon a water glass on the counter with a bit of water in it, I pour it into the dog bowl. They drink out of the toilet so I'm pretty sure they're okay with backwash.

And, there it was, resting on the the bottom of the water bowl. Tooth!

Tears are gone, smile is back, "It's so good that one of the dogs didn't swallow it, the tooth fairy would have had to fly into the dog!"

Yep, that forgetful bitch would have had to fly into a dog...

Summertime and the livin’ is easy…

I love summer. Love. Love. Love. Although not my favorite season, fall wins there. Chilly in the morning, warm in the afternoon, orange leaves and pumpkin flavored everything.

But, back to summer.

Until I was 11, I lived in either Eastern Washington or Northern Idaho. Close to the sun. Where I used to be very tan and blonde; I am now pasty and “blonde”.

I achieved this fantastical tan through the over-usage of Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil. Because, I was eight. And it smelled good.

Spent a lot of time on the Snake River. A lot of time. I can still hear it. There is a sound, distinct. Drop under the water, just cover your ears. The muffled sound of laughing and playing in the water and behind that, the hum of boat engines. It’s meditative.

We’d head to the river, Hells Gate State Park, when we lived in Idaho. When we lived in Washington, we walked out the front door. Hells Gate was nicer. It cost a dollar per car to get in. Relatively early in the morning. To get a good spot. Spread out the blanket. Green plaid. Start the process of blowing up the air mattresses.

Break out the snacks: Sour Cream and Onion chips, soda pop, light beer (mom only!) and oreos. The beer and oreo thing has stuck with me. If you haven’t tried it, you’re missing out. Truly.

It would be hot. Often 100 degrees or more, it was Hells Gate, after all. You’d run from the grass to the water to try to not burn your feet on the sand. That run got longer as the river receded later in the summer.

Start at the top of the swimming area, float to the end. Flip over and do it again. Again and again. Jump in. Dive. Somersaults. Handstands. You need to have an even base burn. You should be absolutely red, blistered is even better, by the end of the day. You’ll be miserable and unable to sleep for a few nights and then you’ll peel. And peel. And peel.

But then, well, you’ll be a perfect golden brown. Repeat each Saturday or Sunday - after church of course. And as you’ve completed the task of the base burn, you don’t burn again all summer. Just a deeper and deeper tan. Which translates into some amazing sun damage as an adult.

My children have no idea what this is like. The 80’s seem like another planet now. They’ve never been in the sun without massive quantities of sunscreen. Nor have they ever been encouraged to work on their base burn. In turn, neither one is as comfortable in the water as I was. Probably due to the distance from Western Oregon to the Snake River. And, my fear of damaging their perfect innocent skin.

They do know about beer and oreos though. Because I'm raising them right.

Regular Grandma

July 9th would be Regular Grandma's birthday. I miss her everyday. From little things like the way her lotion smelled to bigs things like long talks on walks on gravel roads. She in her Keds, me in my Nikes. Until I got her to wear Vans.

Coolest. Grandma. Ever.

She was a poet and always encouraged me to be a writer. Turns out starving writer wasn't the direction I wanted to go. I do think she'd like most of my posts - if they didn't contain the occasional profanity.

When she'd write something, she'd get out the blue electric typewriter. I think she'd be amazed that I wrote and posted this from a phone.

Below is her eulogy. It's not enough but it's all I can do today.

~~~

I know that a lot of people think that they have the best grandmother.  They'd be wrong.  They can't because I had the best one.  

We called her Regular Grandma.  Not because she was regular but because we had a lot of other grandma’s:  Green Grandma, Great Grandma, Grandma Gladys.  Jeremy, Derek and Drew had Seattle Grandma.  So she was just regular.  Regular Grandma.  

She grew up in Seattle and worked for the Army during the war.  She met our grandfather there.  It must have been the incredible Henley charm that got her, with her severe hay fever, to leave Seattle for Hay, WA.

When my mom and uncles were young, she would set snacks out after school.  What was there was what they got.  Even if they were 'starving'.  

When we were kids, we could get our own snacks, but we were warned when we headed to the kitchen.  "Don't spoil your dinner".

When the great grand kids arrived, it was a whole new world.  One afternoon she got Oreos out for Henley and Cole.  After they each had one, she gave them two more - one for each hand.  When I reacted in horror that she was aiding them in spoiling their dinner, she rolled her eyes and said, "Relax.  It's not like I'm giving them marijuana."

Holding a baby. One of her favorite things.

There was nothing regular about her.  She was a fun grandma. On a dare she rode my BMX bike up to Filan's.  Probably because I was so shocked when she said she could ride a bike.  There was no way she'd not prove it to me.  

She loved teaching us things and reading to us and with us.  I know my love of reading comes from her. 

Once on a long trip in the motorhome she spotted a historical marker.  Pioneer Woman's Grave.  She loved history and wanted us to love it too.  Pioneer women don't have graves with easy freeway access.  We barreled down a narrow dirt road with grandpa at the wheel.  

Any moment with them was a teachable moment and I learned a couple things that day.  1) being a woman on the Oregon trail was tricky business and 2) how to back a 30 foot motorhome a couple miles down a narrow dirt road.

There are a lot of things people probably don't know about my grandma.  On top of being kind and generous, she was hysterically funny. She would laugh so hard that she couldn't breathe and it was contagious. 

She made the most amazing bread and cookies.  She found a mammoth tooth. How many people can say that about their grandma?

I was very fortunate to get to spend Tuesdays with her when I was young. (And a lot of summers and breaks.) I can remember sitting up on the green kitchen stool counting cups and teaspoons for whatever she was baking that day.  I bake many of those same recipes now.  They don't taste the same.  I don't know what ingredient they are missing.  But, I can tell you it's not tangible.

As said in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, a lady always knows when to leave. My grandmother was nothing if not a lady. 

Jammin'

We're headed into summertime. Just a few days away. This is the time of year I most think about my grandma. Probably because I spent a lot of summer days with her.

Most summers I get the itch to do some canning. Seriously. Stop laughing. I'm not being sarcastic. I put up food. It's in my DNA. Country mouse style. I don't think canning has anything to do with food though - for me.

It's the process. Hot jars, fruit, the steam in the kitchen, the familiar pop of the seal. It takes me back to being a kid. Makes me remember being sprawled out on the floor, just about ready to fall asleep in the afternoon, listening for the metallic pop followed by her saying, "there's another one!"

I wonder what she'd think about this canning business today. I'd say something like, "what? you canned all the time."

To which she'd respond with, "I didn't have a job. I wasn't busy like you."  Because running that house with military precision wasn't a job to her...

She 'wasn't busy' and 'wasn't in a hurry' - just two of the many reasons she didn't have a microwave. Why cook things fast if you aren't in a hurry?

Now there's a pretty big difference between Aileen Henley canning and me canning. I'd really like to be more like her, but, the Moore* blood...

I find canning goes a lot better with a couple beers. Maybe more than a couple. I'm fairly certain that she never had a canning buzz. I'd love to be wrong on that one...
Side Note: I'm pretty sure that she'd be a little disappointed in my level of social drinking. Unless the Ladies Aid or the F.A.N. Club were more fun than I suspect.

She listened to music in the kitchen and hummed along. KHQ on the old radio. So, in this case we're sort of similar. Except, I'm 'singing' at the top of my lungs to Bob Marley. Because, it's funny to me to sing the 'Jammin' song while literally jamming.

I like to keep it casual - it's a hot and sort of miserable set of tasks. I wear Converse, she wore Keds. I wear shorts. She would never. Also, they're too short. Are not.

She would can first thing, before it got too hot. I tend to can later in the day, sometimes even late at night when it's more socially acceptable to have a couple drinks. Oh, and it's cooler then too.

Our berries this time were picked at a U-pick - not quite on a whim but pretty close. I didn't even have all the things I needed to can that day. I didn't plan days in advance what I was going to do. Not only was I not fully prepared for canning, I picked berries in the middle of the day. Without a giant sunhat. Without. A. Hat. I should be ashamed of myself.

I never really learned how to do any of this. I think I just imitate what she did. When a jar doesn't seal I flip it over, this confused the husband.

I couldn't really tell him why, it's just what she did. And that thing sealed.

I do a lot of jam and I've done peaches and applesauce. She did those and cherries, apricots, pickled beans and pickles. Those others seem intimidating to me. Plus, I'm slightly afraid that if I start eating canned apricots, I'll also start eating molasses cookies. If I do that, I'll forget how to adult. I'll regress into that eight year old falling asleep on the floor. 

I wonder if my kids will have nostalgic canning memories. They have fun picking berries and fruit and they're possibly addicted to toast and homemade jam. Maybe it skips a generation and their kids (shudder) will want to participate. Or maybe buzzed canning grandma won't be that inspiring...

Jars and jars.

*Anytime any Henley ever did anything wrong, Dorothy Henley attributed it to 'The Moore' blood. Works for me.