Little Cars

Our annual Branding, 1989.  Fifteen cowboys rounded up 250 head of Grandpa's free-range cattle, vaccinated, castrated, de-horned,  and branded them with his J-Lazy H hot iron.  Here my dad in the maroon sweatshirt runs the shoot, and Grandpa, putting away his can of chaw, looks towards the camera through his dark sunglasses.  

Long ago, two young kids had three babies during the greatest economic depression our country has ever known.  One of those kids, the middle boy, was Jearl, my grandfather.  The family moved to Washington as migrant workers in the thirties, and eventually settled on a twenty acre chunk of land in Granger, and farmed. 

Grandpa was a hard working farm kid, who fell pray to several accidents that brushed him up close to death.  He had been plowing a field when the tractor on an incline fell over on top of him.  He had been working with a horse when it spooked and kicked his mouth and nose in, leaving a horrible scar reminiscent of a hairlip.  Grandpa wasn't interested in school, but I know he took piano lessons at one point.  He was more interested in girls, parties, and making money.  He had a mysteriously dark complexion, one we know now stems from a Jewish heritage, but at the time his deep brown eyes and curly black hair turned the girls' heads. One such head turned at a dance one night, as Grandpa with his extraordinary two-step skills made a pretty young girl named Luster swoon.  They were soon married and had three babies of their own, the oldest, my father. 

But the story is not a happy one.  Grandpa was a hard man in desperate times.  He was raised to be tough and strong, and became jagged and abrasive.   Unlike Grandpa Jose who was embedded in a thriving Mexican culture and Catholic community, Grandpa Jearl was a loner, pushing away would-be friends, embarrassing to his family in most social situations, drunk, lewd, dangerous, careless.  

I grew up with him being quiet and scowling.  I'd hear him and his cowboy friends exchange jokes that didn't make sense to me, but I assumed (rightly) not to repeat them at school.   I thought he was rock solid.  Unbreakable.  Unfeeling.  Until I was sixteen when my grandma was slowly dying of cancer.  I saw him kneel beside her, the band of his Stetson hat imprinted in his hair, and softly wash the drool from her mouth.  And then he left the room angrily wiping at his eyes.  

Years later he quit drinking, and his first great grandchild was born, our Andres.  Although grandpa has been unapologetically racist, even around  my husband, he drove three hours the day when Andres was born, just to meet him.  He held Andres more, caressed him more, than he had ever done any of us.  I wondered who this man was.  He was still quiet, but the scowl had vanished.  He had softened.  And warmed.  

Tenderly, so carefully, adjusting Andres' cap the day after his birth.

He sat admiring him.   Long moments passed in silence, a reverie.  

Andres' first Christmas.  Grandpa gave him all sorts of toys, little cars and this Eyore.  

Grandpa gave Andres his first tractor ride at one. 

Grandpa came down for birthdays or Easter, or no reason at all.  He started to call me out of the blue to see how Andres was doing.  Every couple of weeks, he'd check on him.   Grandpa had not even talked to me more than five times in my entire life was now calling.  

"How's that boy doing?" he'd ask.  His voice was still gruff.  But it was the message that melted my heart.

After Raph was born, the phone calls grew more numerous.  Dad would bring him down to us as we were so locked down in our lives, our schedules, our stuff.  Grandpa would sit and watch them play, smiling at them.  Smiling!  And laughter would roll from his chest as the boys wrestled about on the floor, playing with the little cars that Grandpa was so careful to always have when he showed up for a visit.

Grandpa gently propping Raph up for a picture.

"How's them boys treating you?"  As I shared the stories of my children with Grandpa, about how mad I was about something or how they were driving me crazy, he'd just laugh.  Everything they did tickled him.  They overjoyed him.

When we found out he had cancer, it wasn't a surprise to us that he refused treatment.  Slowly he lost the things he's had around him all his life.  He sold off his horses.  He sold most his cattle, reserving twenty for beef.  He gave away his dogs, holding onto the last, a sweet Border Collie named Belle, as long as he could until even she had to go.  His energy to run a cattle farm was zapped.  And Dad did the best he could to make sure Grandpa was eating and sleeping, but Dad works full time, and runs the farm full time, and as Grandpa needed more intensive care, my Aunt Jodie, retired Air Force nurse, came from Spokane to stay after Grandpa had suffered several serious falls alone in the house.

Aunt Jodie brought him down to visit us on Saturday.  Shockingly, he was a shadow of the big, tough man I grew up with, a looming figure of a cowboy atop a partially-wild quarter horse surrounded by a gangle of border collies, his henchmen ready and eager to obey any command.  Saturday he was thin, brittle, shaking.  He leaned against a walker and needed three adults to help him move.  But he had brought cars for the boys.

"We had to stop at WalMart and get these little cars on the way down," Aunt Jodie said to me, watching as Grandpa carefully selected a car for each boy, then watched with a toothless smile as they feverishly ripped off the packaging and squealed with delight to have a new Hot Rod.  "It took all his energy to just get out of the car, but we had to get these cars."

I don't remember much of that visit, except the way he reached down to hug the boys goodbye.

"You listen to your mama, now, ye hear."

 I heard the farewell in his voice, in his message, and intercepted his meaning.  He meant it to be his parting words to them.

I'm not sure I'll ever know why he was so angry most of his life, or why his life was so hard.  He's softer now, but still amazingly tough. But I'm humbled at the dignity he demonstrates as he faces these days at the end.   He's showing me how, even as we draw up close to the last door, and place our fingers lightly on the knob, we are ever-growing, always-changing beings, right up to the final open.   And more importantly he's shown me how a redeeming love as big as the sun can nicely fit into a great-grandson's hand, driven around on the linoleum with great joy, crashing into shoes and dinosaurs with loud explosions, and laughed on from above.

My Pink Heart-Shaped Flag

Something happened when Raphael came along.  I became acutely aware that I was suddenly the only female in the house.  Now, I'm a farm kid, and have failed in most efforts at feminine charm, lack desired petite physique and soft-spoke attributes not withstanding, and was less of a princess as a child and more of a tomboy book worm.  And pink and lace and flowers and fashion, among other girly trappings, always seemed alluring, yet sadly unattainable, uncomfortable.  I was, and remain for the most part, big, loud, and brown.  But when Raph was born, something like a little blush rose budded within me.  As I looked at my husband and my sons, I was overcome with a fierce love and pride for my clan of men, and that little rose burst open.  For about ten days of the year, I embrace that rose, and let my pink, heart-shaped flag fly!

And I enjoy treating my little ones when I can, and for our family, creating little celebrations in the void of celebrations, making something special that isn't necessarily so by itself, gives me an opportunity to create special memories for them.  I do hope that when they are grown they have harbored and treasured these days as I have.  And maybe, even as they roll their eyes at my silly antics, they'll feel warmed by my love for them anyway.

Disclaimer:  Obscene use of hearts and pink and candy below.  Reader is warned, and I am hereby not responsible for any sugar comas, cavities, pink ODs, and/or {heart} attacks.  

So it started out with an evite to Aaron's sister Cris, aka Tia Kissie as the boys call her.  The evite was from Andres and Raphael, requesting the pleasure of her company on Saturday night, the 9th of February to a Love Party.  To which she promptly replied "yes!"  Then we had a lot of work to do, and not much money to do it with.  Enter stage right:  Pinterest and Dollar Store.

I've made chocolate heart-shaped sugar cookies with light pink frosting for three years and it wouldn't be Valentine's Day without them.  The boys and I mixed up the dough, and wrapped it to chill in the fridge overnight, and the next day when Andres was at school, Raph and I worked the frosting.

He's getting so good in the kitchen, such a wonderful helper, my Raph.  Notice his new hairdo?  He initiated that at the end of January while I was sick with the Rota Virus, begging Aaron to euthanize me, little Mr. Man helped himself to the hair sheers in our bathroom and butchered his bangs and sides.  He looked like a burn victim, and although I was so thankful that he didn't lose an eye or snip his ear, we all lamented his Little Lord Fauntleroy curls.  We'd ask him "Raph, were did your hair go?"  He'd shrug and say "all gone," then we'd pretend to cry about it.  He'd rush to us, throw his arms around us in a comforting way, smiling and laughing because clearly we were the only ones grieving his beautiful, trademark fro.  Such a bummer.  I digress.

We are a playdough house, and by that I mean we love us some playdough around these parts.  The Gingerbread Playdough we made at Christmas, completed with the gingerbread cookie cutters from the dollar store, not only smelled so fresh and wonderful it made your mouth water, but had an amazing texture that enchanted the boys for literally hours at the table.  So we set about making Valentine's Day playdough, a creamy chocolate playdough and sweet strawberry playdough duet, which smelled absolutely like a dessert, and made some more good use of the heart cookie cutters.  Thankfully they know not to eat the stuff, no matter how yummy it smells.  Seriously, how many more years of this playdough thing do I have before (God help me) babes and cars and social media take over their free time?  Not many.  The years are flying by, so I try to keep it fresh and creative, and perhaps cultivate a couple of future Michaelangelos in the process.

Yes, even I love playdough.  Honestly, it's soothing and stress-relieving, and it's something I love doing with the boys.

Raph loved making little choco marshmallows that he called "hot cocoa," since that's where they go, and Andres made Cupid arrows.

With those little hands occupied, I was able to create some more decorations to our meager Valentine's Day collection.  Being VERY aware of our financial constraints, I limited the decorations to using whatever I had laying around, and allowed a couple bucks splurge at the Dollar Store for fake roses and a ball to glue them onto for my topiary in my Gramma's milk-glass vase.  I made a garland when I was pregnant with Raph and this year wanted to add some Cupid's arrows.  They were free since I had all the materials, and I think they turned out pretty cute, spinning over the table, pointing at random victims of love.

After the decorations were in place, I set about getting the menu right, and if it couldn't be pink, red, heart-shaped or strawberries, then it wasn't on the list.  Last year I had an amazing Borsch, one of our family favorites, so perfectly fuscha and absolutely delicious, but tragically staining (beet roots are healthy for you and used as a clothing dye, little did I know at the time) and found out when Andres sprayed his bowl over the table on accident.  That was NOT going to be on the menu this year!  The year before last I made a heart shaped meat loaf (my first Love Day Party when Raphael was tiny) and now that we're pretty meat free in this house, and Tia Kissie is a complete vegetarian, I needed to find something without meat, but still met all my Mandatory Love Day Menu Requirements.  I found the heart shaped ravioli idea on Pinterest that fit the bill, and filled them with my own cheesy spinach and artichoke mixture.

The day of the party, Andres helped me create a welcoming Love Party sidewalk art display for Tia when she came a'knocking.  He asked me to draw the heart shapes so he could color them in.  He did a good job and was quite proud and eager for Tia to come.  I insisted his hearts were very good, but he felt more comfortable just coloring rather than drawing them out.  Actually, his hand-drawn hearts are quite dear.

My sweet guy.  

After lunch we did a family craft to display on the patio doors, and then when Raph went down for a nap, Aaron and Andres helped set the dessert and dining tables.  Aaron was finally able to light the candles, and we waited for Tia to show up.

Getting ready...

I thought it would be sweet (no pun intended) to use edible paint made of powdered sugar, water, and food coloring to mark a place setting at the table right onto the plates.   

The boys loved the Cupid Arrows from jelly candies and pretzels. 

Once it was all set out, and we were all twitching to dig into those cupcakes and strawberries covered in white choco, Tia showed up, and the party could start!

First thing first, as soon as she walked in the door, Andres had to get Tia up to date on the latest developments in his "epic."  

For the wee ones, sparkling cider.  For the big kids, spumante bubbles with strawberry nectar.  It made such a pretty blush pink color and was misleadingly sweet.    

Time to wash up for dinner!  I adore this shot, two handsome guys.

Love Party 2013 Dinner Menu: 

(Heart-Shaped) Spinach and Artichoke Ravioli in a Vodka sauce

Strawberry Almond Spinach Salad

(Heart-Shaped) Sour Cream Biscuits
Cherry Almond Cupcakes
Chocolate Sugar Cookies
Chocolate Strawberries
Various Heart Candy Galore

After dinner there was a lot of playing around in the mirror with the mustache straws and "Love Goggles." 

The straws never lasted to the milkshakes I had planned, but they proved to be more exciting than just drinking straws!

Then the night slowly wrapped up, each of us quite full from dinner, which turned out delicious, and the cupcakes and cookies and candy all very much nibbled.  We sent Tia home with a lot of treats and feel so glad we were able to shower her with love, as she deserves, and to able to give my men a special night showing them my (glittering, heart-shaped, pink and red) love for them all.

When Valentine's Day rolled around, we had Red Velvet Milkshakes that were to die for, topped with Redi-Whip, of course.  I can't remember the last time I bought that and think it was the first time they've ever had it, because it was a like food item they had just discovered.

Andres LOVED the Redi-Whip.

Wild Kratts on PBS after rest time and Red Velvet "shake-shakes" as Raphael calls them. 

Andres had loot from his VDay in school to share with Raph, and I got them tiny chocolate boxes with Super Hero juice drinks.   Andres was so generous to share with Raph.

I had to work in the nursery at church on Valentines night, but before I ran out the door with an apple for dinner, I had to do one more special thing for my special guys on Valentine's Day.

Yes.  I did.   And I think they loved it. 

Forest Fires

When I was in college I knew a guy who was a forestry major and firefighter in the rugged mountain-scape around Ellensburg, Washington.  He told me awesome stories about firefighting, using what we know about slope, direction of a breeze, and digging trenches to guide a roaring fire towards extinguishing itself out.  But most interesting, I think, were his accounts of curing tree diseases that struck me most deeply.  Sometimes an entire area was so infected with illness that to seize the spread of the disease to more trees in neighboring areas, they would strategically create a controlled forest fire to purify the ecosystem.  Not only did this help the health of the forest, but the fire also created nutrient-rich ash for new life to thrive, and some trees even have fire-triggered pinecones that release seed only during blazing infernos.  To save the forest, they burned the trees.

I think sometimes we encounter forest fires like this.  I've had situations where relationships were razed to the ground, and it was excruciatingly painful, because of course burning hurts and smoke is blinding and choking.  But when the air is clear again, and the wounds have scabbed over, something wonderful happens.  Where it was once clogged with illness or unhealth is now an open and vast field, allowing room for something better to grow again, something new.

It's interesting how these forest fires take shape in our lives.  A misunderstanding with a dear friend can lead to a deeper friendship.  An argument with a spouse can bring about new understanding and clarity.   I've had bad mom moments that have left me so greif-stricken and bereft with guilt that my only choice was to change, and (hopefully) become someone more like the mom I wanted to be.  A beloved person in my life had an extramarital affair, and the relationship with her husband was completely and understandably torched.  But their commitment to God and each other allowed them to plant seeds of new growth in their marriage through lots of hard work on themselves and their relationship, and these many years later they are perfectly aligned together and are showered with blessings.  The fire that took my family away from me remains a vacant lot, yet I can't linger there.  Sometimes the vacant lot needs to be vacant because that's the healthier option, the better option.   It's sitting fallow.  So I water the field where my boys and husband are, where my friends are, and grow among their boughs.

My dear Austrian friend, Judith, has a life I admire and sometimes envy, as she travels around the world living very simply in a small villa in Spain, or a city in Sweden, or a thatch hut on the beach in Columbia.  Keeping track of her has been a joyous challenge of the 15 years of our friendship, and her email was currently the only thread I had connecting us.  With our email account stolen last week, blocking our access to our contact list, I bemoaned losing her completely.   How was I to find her now as she galavanted around the world?

Driven to find her contact info I did what any red-blooded American would do, and googled her, discovering only a paper from Graz University she had published on psychology while in grad school, nothing else.  When Aaron suggested I revisit our old email address I argued that it was dead, and wouldn't be able to access.  But I remembered our old password and after all this time, was able to log in and find her address!

That was a success, but more, I discovered that people had still be sending us emails to that address unbeknownst to us.  One email was from a Korean student I had taught ages ago as a recent immigrant student in 7th grade.  After she moved into high school, I privately tutored her in language arts, and I continue to have a deep fondness for her all these years later.  And there in this dead email account I found from her a note, sent just six weeks ago.

"Dear Mrs. V.  
How are you?  I'm suffering from the famous "what will I do with my life after college?" syndrome.  Can we get together and talk?"

I couldn't get over the luck of finding this, and replied right away.  But it doesn't end there.

About three weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend at church that wounded and confused me severely.  Honestly, it broke my heart.  We had gone to Africa in the same group where we bunked together in a cinder-block shack suffering as sisters would the braying donkeys outside our window and the Muslim call to prayers throughout the sweltering nights.  I respected her and looked up to her, but that conversation left me feeling gutted.  I felt the best thing to do was prune the friendship and move on.

Yet there in this dead email account's in box was a note from her.  

"I feel I owe you an apology after our exchange tonight.  I hope if I have offended you, that you can forgive me for my insensitivity toward you."  

So as much as I've complained and moaned about the inconvenience of our email being stolen, I now see it as a blessing.  I never dreamed of visiting that old email account until I had lost Jude's address.  And after the fire I shuffled through the ash to discover wonderful, green, and thriving signs of life.