Family Ties

I don't write much about the family. It's not intentional. Just hard to do. Most people know I come from a big family and a small town. If you don't and are interested, feel free to review.

Small town, huge family.

Some of the family bond may be the town we come from. We all definitely have the small town pragmatism in common.  We're are all smart asses. That's genetic. Lots of tall, blonde and blue eyes running around... We pretty much all look the same and love beer, wine and whiskey. And, I won't say there hasn't been a jar of moonshine passed around once or twice...

Moonshine Maidens.

We communicate with sighs, groans, eye rolls and sarcasm.

We're loud. Really, really loud. So damn loud. Like shake the house loud. In the best possible way.

Always smiling.

We're all cousins. Dumped in a bucket together called cousin. We don't keep track. 1st cousin is no more special or important than 2nd or 9th. A cousin is a cousin. Some cousins are actually called Aunts and Uncles. Makes it easier to track that way - generational. There are a lot of us. If I had to guess I'd say it's 907. Or so. In addition to the cousins, we've got a couple thousand aunts and uncles. True aunts and uncles, not to be confused with cousins who we call 'aunts and uncles'. It all makes sense. Really. Trust me.

We're scary, possibly terrifying. When one brings 'home' a new person, like a boyfriend or girlfriend, it's got to be intimidating. They may think they are just coming for a low key Sunday dinner. What they don't understand is that a low key Sunday dinner to us is for 50 people. Invited to a family barbecue? Hell, that could be 100 or more. Best of luck new person! Better hope we like you!

Cousins!

We see each other at least once a year for what is pretty much a mandatory family event where we mix our love of hanging out with our die hard need for competition. Our other get togethers tend to be weddings or funerals. Although lately it has been funerals.

I'm looking forward to the next round of weddings...

Going to be awhile though as the next generation is pretty young.

So, twice a year or so a big band of cousins gets together and essentially takes over a town - we've been asked to either quiet down or leave on a number of occasions. Turns out we're just as loud sad as we are happy.

We lost one from our cousin bucket this winter. One of my faves. Of course, we all came together. We  ate, drank, talked and cried. Were so loud we shook a house. It's how it's supposed to be.

Together.

Sunday Dinner.

12!

Holy Hell. The boy has a fuzzy mustache. Just enough to make his lip look a little dirty. And me to feel a little sad. He's growing up. 5'2". 12 years old in less than 24 hours. 12! He's literally 10 times bigger than he was at birth. He wears Adult Small. Men's shoes. Which for the tiny bit of additional material has an amazing price increase.

A 'tween'.

If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times... They say 'tween' on television because they can't say asshole. Not to say he's that bad, but he's a little bit of a ball of hormones. Something that was fine on Tuesday is a disaster on Wednesday. I don't know how he doesn't pull muscles with his eye rolls. They're spectacular.

He's so good at, "Whaaaaat? Mommmmmmmmmm?" that it feels like I personally trained him to push my own buttons.

But then, he'll come and insist upon a hug. Tell me that he loves me and we'll snuggle on the couch and watch some television. He's sweet to his core and I hear from his teachers that he's a great kid. He works hard at school. And honestly, I think he's a great kid, too.

His gift this year? A kayak. He wanted a laptop. Felt like him floating around in the lake was safer than internet access. Because, boobs. And a conversation I'm not ready for. 

Manly.

Ladies man.

Man's man.

Man about town.

As fun as four

On New Year's Eve 2016, I had a thought.

Probably the same thought a whole bunch of bicentennial babies had...

Shit.

I'm turning 40 this year.

Now, I'm not super big on age but I'll admit, 40 is bothering me. I don't really know why. I think because 40 seems like I should be so grown up. But, really, I'm about 12 years old. Or so I feel. I'm just a kid parading around in an adult suit. Making decisions.

Or at least it feels like it... As I sit here watching The Muppets.

I love the Muppets. I've seen all the movies. Even the 90's kind of crappy ones. (Muppets From Space, I'm looking at you.) I get that the new show is mostly geared to adults. And, I'll be honest and say that my kids do watch it from time to time. (Go judge somewhere else, judge-y moms.) They don't get the adult jokes, I get to watch my favorite show and we're watching all snuggled up on the couch together. Win/win.

Pure Joy.

I loved the show in the 70's. I wanted nothing more for my fourth birthday than a stuffed Kermit. Which I got. Because, there's a possibility I was and am spoiled. My mother searched all over - remember, pre-internet -  and ended up finding Kermit at the Lacrosse Hardware Store. Just a few feet from her hair salon.

I have photos of that birthday party. I'm not sure that I've ever been as happy as I was in that moment - hugging that Kermit for the first time.

That year we celebrated my birthday a couple days early. We were preparing to move and our mother was going out of town to look at houses. We did a combined brother/sister birthday party on May 17th, 1980. He turned 11, I turned four.

The next day, May 18th, 1980 we were playing near our grandparents house. I put Kermit in a box under some bushes near the back door of Norma's house. For safe keeping. Then went and played.

The sky turned black. We were quickly ushered up the hill to grandma and grandpa's house to wait out what was assumed to be a flood. It wasn't. It was a volcano.

We spent the day inside. Grandma was keeping us busy, no doubt - so we wouldn't be scared. Our mom was away and we were being covered in ash.

Around bedtime I remembered. And freaked.

You want to know what a hero is? A hero is a grandpa who will go out in the falling ash to find a Kermit doll in a box under some bushes near the door of Norma's house. In the dark. With sketchy directions from a four year old.

I still have that Kermit. He's on the list of things to grab if the house ever catches on fire. Right after kids and dogs. Kermit.

36 years later, I still need a Kermit hug from time to time.

Here's to hoping that 40 is as awesome as four. Less volcano would be nice.

Still together after all these years.

I just felt like running...

Not totally true... I don't really remember what started the 'running thing'. But, pretty sure there was peer pressure involved.

My goals a year or so ago - keep running 10k's. Run a 1/2 marathon when I was 39. Marathon at 40.

Ended up a few weeks ahead. Ran the first 1/2 just before I turned 39 and the marathon is scheduled for five weeks before my 40th birthday.

If you know me at all you know being ahead of schedule is generally a good thing. Although daunting.

The bummer of training is how many practice miles there are. A lot. Unfortunately I can't just go out and run 26.2 on the day... 

And so, on Saturday I ran 14.2. Only a little over a mile further than a 1/2. But, damn. I felt it. Trying to tell myself, hey, it's only 12 more miles on the big day...

This whole marathon thing started when Pheidippides ran from Marathon to Athens to tell of the victory against Persia. He announced the victory then died.

Um, wait. What? He died?

Shit.

He had run about 150 miles over the two days prior. He was 40 years old. Turns out at the time life expectancy was 40-45. 

When I mentioned this to a friend. The possibility of just dropping dead... She was quick with, 'he was an old Greecian who probably hasn't had water in days. You're going to let that intimidate you?'

Um, yeah. Probably.

I'm thinking I'll rethink my goal for the actual race day. 

Finishing is winning. Oh, and not dying.

Light it up

Fucking Christmas lights.

Fuck.

That's almost all I have to say about that. Almost. Because if I didn't have much to say, why would we be here?

But, seriously.

I love the lights. They are a must have. It's just such a bitch to get them up. And take them back down.

My dad was pretty obsessive about them. And, I am too. I won't deny it. I love them but they have to be just so. Just so.

I would help dad get the lights out, they were perfectly coiled and put away from the year before. Stored in the box the garage door opener came in. His left-handed print across the box in several locations: CHRISTMAS LIGHTS. He would test them - big, glass, multi-colored. If an orange bulb was out, it was replaced with an orange one. We would do inventory and then drive over to Fred Meyer and buy the appropriate bulbs. Orange, green, blue, white, red. C9.

I drive by so many houses and just want to get out and help them. They have, in what must be a mistake, a horrible mistake, not replaced their bulbs properly. You can't have primary colors and then put a pink one in because a bulb is out and pink is what you had on hand. You can't have four pink, then a green, then a clear, then a yellow. I'm looking at you little cottage on Verboort Road. Looking at you.

One time on Golden Lane, I was holding the light string while testing was occurring. Perfect coil of lights in my hand. Standing there on the front porch, bit of a rain that day, when I was, for lack of a better term, electrocuted. A glass bulb was cracked, the wire exposed, touching my bare wet hands. Me standing there, shaking in pain while dad shouted from the garage, "Damn it! Why won't these light up?"

That was probably the beginning of my love/hate relationship with the lights.

Many, many years later... I was home alone at our first house.

The house was brand new. The neighborhood was gearing up for Christmas and it appeared to be getting competitive. Our first Christmas there. This is when you have to set the tone. Make the neighbors understand that you mean business. Christmas light business.

Went to Fred Meyer. Bought one million feet of lights. Clear. Big. Glass. C9.

Started with the bushes in the front flower bed. Small lights for that. Carefully wrapped each bush. Felt very successful to see them all lit up.

Moved on to the house. Got the ladder out. Started clipping lights around the garage door. Then moved up to the gutters. Using gutter clips and keeping them tightly lined up... snap, clip, move, snap, click, move. This is a change from my dad's approach. He was a staple gun man. I find that permanent hooks and plastic clips work better for me. I never told him that while he as alive. He would have been crushed.

During all this time, PacoDog was wandering around in the front yard. He was very interested in my technique and form. He sat for a moment in the drive way and watched me progress across the front of the house. Surely calculating how far I could go without adding another extension cord... wondering why I wasn't smarter.

And, then out of the corner of my eye I saw him get up, stretch, sniff, go to the first bush in the line and... now this next part happened in slow motion. I swear. His leg went up as I dove off the ladder.

But it was too late.

A whiff of smoke, and a yip followed by a loud boom.

Then the house went dark.

Paco bolted.

In good news, the dog didn't die. That night. The only death that night was my dream. My dream of having the best lit house on the block. Oh, and also that Rhody.

That Rhododendron died.

Why am I dredging up past Christmas light horror stories now... well... I just spent several hours updating C9 lightbulbs on LED strings. They are not indestructible old school glass lights. They are persnickety. They take care and feeding. They are a pain in the ass. Changed fuses, went Clark Griswald style and checked each bulb. Sat on the living room floor trying to will them to work properly. Gave up. Went to Freddies. Bought more. Added in some old school glass C9's to our front porch decor.

Light man came and put up lights. Well, the parts that require a ladder. This house has a habit of flinging people off the roof. Normally I'd be up for the challenge but I think it's better to pay a guy money and not cheat death at Christmas.

And in January they'll be taken down. Coiled up properly and put away. In their red Christmas totes. And yet, 11 months from now, the light fight will be back. I'll likely be making a mad dash to Freddies to buy more of something.

Worth it.

Dad would approve. Even without the staples.

Squirrel!

About 13 years ago we were buying our first home. On one of our visits to check construction and progress we heard a frog.

I remember thinking, 'oh, wow! We have a frog!'

Well, that frog turned out to be about 20,000 frogs. 20,000 loud, loud frogs.

They were cute, they were fun. I saved many of them. Pulled them off the side of the car, put them outside (after a reasonable amount of screaming), freed them after the kids caught them. I was a good frog steward. There are pluses to the frogs - there are no bugs anywhere near your home. None. You sleep incredibly soundly. You can't hear the television but you sleep well.

And so when we moved, I knew I'd miss the frogs. 

But what I got was going to be better. I got squirrels! They're funny. They're furry. They seem pretty smart. My goal in those early days was to tame a couple to come up to the door and take nuts from my hand. That sounded fun. At the time.

It turns out that squirrels are assholes.

Assholes.

And the squirrels in my neighborhood were not pleased when I moved in. With two children and three dogs.

Our house had not been regularly lived in for a few years and then vacant for another year or so. The squirrels had gotten quite used to lounging around in our backyard and sunning themselves on our balcony. 

Stop digging! Jerks.

They showed their displeasure often in the beginning. I was working in a flowerbed under a pine tree when I was hit on the head with an apple. One of then little bastards threw an apple at me. An apple. We don't have an apple tree near our yard. I swear he laughed.

Mating season is intense. And never ending apparently. Squirrels don't understand that no means no. I've been woken up in the early morning on multiple occasions to the sound of a lady squirrel trying to escape a randy male. Literally banging on my window to avoid banging him. No means no buddy!

The kids comment about the squirrels playing 'tag'. Yep. They're playing tag. Hopefully she doesn't get tagged.

But then, then one or two or many of them pushed it too far. They began hiding their nuts and winter food in the flowerpots on my front porch. I would be greeted after work with plant parts and dirt all over the front steps.

I got smarter. I moved pots around - I even brought the one that they loved the most into the house.

Which seemed to anger them. As they retaliated. 

I came home to a garden gnome face down on the front steps. Broken. Pieces of him everywhere. Hands smashed.

They don't know who they're dealing with.

Murder. Allegedly.

The Funeral

My dad died on May 14, 2007.

The 134th day of the year. 

A Monday.

The call came in the afternoon. My brother.

"I've got sad news, Stace. Dad died today."

I was standing at the bottom of the staircase. Speechless, sort of.

"Son of a bitch."

"I know. But at least we've got closure. It's not what we wanted but at least we don't have to wonder anymore."

It was true. We didn't have to wonder anymore. Wonder when he'd actually call. Wonder when he'd wake up and realize that he'd abandoned his kids. Three of them.

The service was on Friday. Good thing we were all available. Jesus. Funeral planned without his own children involved. Shitty. But not surprising. The step mother comfortably sits at the right hand of Satan. It's not even too warm for her.

And so we did what our mother taught us. We were good citizens. We sent flowers in advance. Showed up in suits, looking like we'd stepped out of a Nordstrom catalog.

It felt like us against the world. Three of us, plus three spouses. A team of six. Heading into a disaster.

Stopped at Starbucks a couple blocks away. Ordered my usual mocha. Wished it was a whiskey with a beer back. 

Turned around and ran into our aunt and uncle. Thank God! Our only relatives on that side. My grandmothers brother. He's filled in a big role in my life. He taught me to ski as a teenager and rollerblade as a twenty-something. He danced with me at my wedding and he makes me laugh. Really hard. 

He's buried his sister, his brother-in-law and his brother. And now he's there to bury his nephew. He's proof that a life well lived isn't necessarily fair.

Our team of six jumped to a team of eight.

It's odd. When you're the stranger. The front row is a hard place to be when you know that the 40 or so people behind you have no idea who you are.

And so the service started. The obituary read by the funeral guy. Preacher maybe. Not sure. Might have just been the owner of the funeral parlor. No idea. The information was wrong anyway for the 10 years or so that he was married to our mother. Oh well. Let that go.

Funeral guy gave us each a task. Think of one word that reminds us of Phil. Our father. Half our DNA. 

Shit, he's going to ask us for our words.

So, I tried to think of an innocuous word. Think. Think. Think. Really wishing I'd had that whiskey.

Funny! That's it. My dad was funny. Really funny. 

True. 

Safe. 

And then my brother leaned over and whispered, knowing my favorite word, he asked, "Is your word, fucker?"

"No! Although that's true. My word is funny."

"My word is absent."

Although fitting, it didn't seem appropriate. 

For a funeral. 

Fortunately we weren't called on.