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Category Archives: lifestyle
They met on a San Francisco street. He was on shore leave during WWII with some of his Navy buddies, and she was out for a night on the town with her girlfriends. She dropped her handbag. He picked it up. That’s the end of the story, and the beginning of the story. In that moment their lives ended, and a new life began. .jpg) .jpg)
My grandparents’ beginnings could not have been any more different… She was a trained dancer, an artist and a beauty queen. Every six months a seamstress came to the house to take her measurements so that season’s wardrobe could be made. While my Grandfather… He was keeping the fire burning, at the bootlegging distillery that his family had hidden in the woods of Kentucky. Then he jumped on a train at fourteen and headed west to California. At sixteen, he lied about his age and joined the Navy. Two different worlds. But those differences never amounted to much. Everything changed when he picked up that handbag.
I came along much later, when their life together was already strongly established. She had already learned to cook… (not a small feat when you grew up with servants who did all the cooking for you.) The two of them had traveled, crashed parties in Mexico and danced all night with Mexican dignitaries, stomped grapes in California with Portuguese immigrants, broke horses, rode in rodeos, spread oil paint on hundreds of canvases, and raised two children together by the time I came into the picture. As a child I enjoyed their love and laughter, not realizing how special they truly were. They were just my grandparents.
We would get snowed in at their house in the foothills of Denver, and have to eat crackers and cans of sardines by candlelight when the power went out. We visited New York when I was eleven, and I had my heart set on peeking through the windows of the crown at the top of the Statue of Liberty’s head. My grandmother walked up hundreds of steps holding my hand and urging me on. My Grandfather rarely caught a fish when he took me fishing at the lakes down the dusty dirt road from their house… How could he, when he spent all of his time untangling my line? But he taught me how to be patient. To sit very still with my finger on the delicate line, the wind blowing ripples across the water and my hair across my face. How to tell the difference between my hook merely bumping over a rock at the bottom, and the feel of a trout really taking hold. Once, when I was a sophomore in college, I called them the week before my summer break. I announced that we should take a trip. Just the three of us. Their only question was to ask where I wanted to go… They packed up their trailer and we drove to New Mexico as soon as I finished my finals.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I began to comprehend what a rare treasure I had in my grandparents. As individuals they were wonderful people. But it was really how they worked together as a couple that strikes me the most now. When you grow up with that kind of perfectly choreographed companionship, you don’t question it. It just… is. I never thought twice about the way they always held hands. Always. In the living room, at a crowded party, in a parking lot. They were together. Always. The way they filled in the blanks of the stories they would tell together. Tales of love and war, sunken ships, bootlegging and gold nuggets along roadsides. The way she would snuggle under the crook of his arm and say, “Hi there, Sailor!” and giggle like a teenager. How he always remembered to bring a sweater for her when they left the house, because he knew she would get cold. Or how he washed the dishes every night after she made dinner. Then they would dance barefoot in the kitchen, the dishtowel still in his hand. .jpg) 
They were two distinct stars. Blazing, brilliant and beautiful in their own right. But together they made their own unique constellation. Just they two… Dancing together in orbit.
My Grandfather passed away last year. I took these photos of the two of them when I was there to celebrate their 90th birthdays. Just three short months later he was gone. These were some of the last photographs taken of them together. I honestly don’t know how she does it now. There is an empty space there that used to hold so much. It hurts my gut to even think about it. But she is strong. So, so very strong. Like I said, she is her own brilliant shining star. But I think he is still with her, still holding her hand. Still keeping her in orbit with the gravitational pull of his love. A love that cannot ever die. Still holding her hand. Still dancing.
written in 2014, as seen in Beyond the Wanderlust Magazine, Edition VI
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There are times… Times when it all falls down around your ears. Not in the real, earth shattering way. Not in the horrible phone call kind of way, or in the car wreck way, or in the life altering medical diagnosis kind of way. Those things happen too, but that’s not what I mean. I mean, just life. When day to day life just seems to unravel. Yes. These kinds of days happen. I’m convinced they happen to us all. And do not, do not, do not, do not. Do not ever tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor. He is the greatest storyteller of all. He is the storyteller, and we are the material. I don’t really mean that God gives us bizarre lives so we have stories to tell at parties. (But maybe so HE has stories to tell at parties? hmmm… There’s an idea.) And I’m not saying that these things happen for God’s own amusement… But I’m not saying they don’t. Because you can’t make this stuff up. Real life, friends. Real life. It’s way funnier than fiction. And a joyful heart can see these bumps in the road for the pearls that they are. The stories we can tell as our children get older. The stories we all know, that we can all laugh about together. The stories that are our families. Those stories have the power to make us all feel a little more connected to each-other, don’t they?
For example. A couple of weeks ago, I said this, and this is a direct quote. “I thought baking two cakes for the Cub Scout carnival and getting the boys all ready for their valentine parties would be doable. Completely doable. By Saturday, I thought it would be challenging, but still fine. By Sunday morning, I knew I was in for a long day, but I could still totally do it. By 4:00, I hate myself. I hate you. I hate Valentine’s Day. I hate the sound of children’s laughter. I hate everyone who has ever, or will ever be a part of the Boy Scouts of America. Valentine’s Day is stupid. You’re all dead to me. All of you.” Yes. That’s where I was the day before the Cub Scout Carnival, a week of elementary school valentine parties, and a five year old’s birthday party. I was mentally drained by motherhood and suburban housewife life. I was stretched too thin between bedtimes, and volunteering at the school, and swimming lessons, and violin recitals, and never-ending laundry piles, and picky eaters, and politics I can’t control, and unfulfilled artistic dreams for myself, and a dirty minivan, and out of state family drama, and, and, AND. I felt sorry for myself then, and I feel sorry for my self now. But, I come from strong stock, and I can totally handle the suburbs. I pulled my big girl pants on and I got it done. Cake, check. Because I’m awesome. The boys were thrilled. The cake they had helped me make was, I don’t mind bragging on myself a little here, a total show stopper. It was a “should have been a prop in a movie” kind of beautiful cake. But then…. oh, then. then… Then, the next morning, I took my four little boys to school, like I always do, no big deal. Just another Monday. When I got home, my husband met me in the driveway, he took my hand and started leading me into the house. “You need to see something.” What, did he buy me flowers? Diamonds? A pony? Yes. Finally, a pony. Nope, and nope. No. Not a pony. He led me into the house to show me my beautiful (past tense, beautiful) quadruple layer, home-made for cub scouts with love, cookies and cream, ultra lightning babe, super mom cake. With a giant dog bite taken out of the side. Yes. That’s right. While I had been driving my dirty minivan full of picky eaters to school, my naughty goldendoodle Oliver had taken a huge godlendoodle sized bite out of the side of our Cub Scout Carnival cake. The cake that was going to win a blue ribbon first prize. He chomped it. With his giant, stupid, slobbery, furry dog face. Just… chomped it. I might have said a bad word. Okay, I definitely did. I totally did. A big one. A big bad word. But then… I found my camera. I took pictures of it. I took pictures of the dog. I took pictures of the chomped cake. I petted Oliver’s stupid naughty head, and scratched behind his stupid naughty ears. Because… You know what? Life is brutal. It’s hard. Sometimes it kicks you right in the Cub Scouts. But it’s also…. really darn funny. It’s magical. It’s vibrant, and melodious, and unexpected. Every day I am breathing is a precious gift. So. We took that cake (that once beautiful, but now disgusting) cake to the Cub Scout Carnival. We changed categories, and we entered our confectionary delight into the contest. Instead of “The Best Cake” first place blue ribbon I was sure we were going to win… We came home with a third place ribbon in the “Grossest Cake” category. (Yes. there was a “grossest cake” category. Because, boys.) The cake titled, ‘The Dog Ate my Cake’ tasted amazing, once we brought it home and hacked off the dog-bitten portion. And that’s life, right? Isn’t that what a joyful life looks like? You hack off the parts the stupid dog drooled all over, and you enjoy the darn cake. Because living a joyful life isn’t always about the big moments. It isn’t always about the best moments. Sometimes it’s about the in-between moments. The moments where you have to eat around the dog slobber to get to the good parts. Try it. Eat the cake you make. It isn’t perfect. But it’s delicious.
When I was in my early twenties, I wanted to be at the end. The end of my story. I was overwhelmed. Afraid. Terrified, even. I didn’t see this exciting chapter as an adventure full of potential. I saw it as a field of landmines. No road signs. Barbed wire. One wrong misstep and I would blow my whole life. I just wanted to be past all of the choices. I wanted to look at all of those decisions through my rear view mirror. Serenely. With wisdom and peace. I wanted the big decisions to already be made, magically decided with magic zero effort pixie dust, and fine outcomes. Not perfect, mind you. I’ve always know that life isn’t perfect. But I wanted to skip the mess and go straight on to the aged wisdom. Twenty years later. I didn’t get pixie dust. Instead I made choices. Hard ones. Easy ones. Some of them made themselves, for better or worse. There are still huge decisions now that I’m forty and no longer twenty. There are still no real road signs. Or, too many road signs, depending on how you look at it. I’m still the same me. Still stumbling. Still occasionally getting tangled in the barbed wire. If anything, now the stakes are even higher, because I am no longer the only player. But i’m no longer terrified of my own life. I know that there are great works ahead of me. The stage is set, the lights are dimming. I am in a constant state of butterflies in my stomach, yes. Butterflies. Excitement. Sometimes the nervous giggles, even. And I let myself feel it. The uncertainty and the wild spontaneity of a life lived. In the moment. This moment. This spark of joy. Now. Big moments on the stage are coming… Yes. They’re coming. But I am learning that the little moments between the big scenes bring their own kind of joy. Their own unique sweetness. These are the moments that I want to sink into with my whole heart. Soak them up through my skin. Breathe them into my lungs with full, great, slow breaths. Stay there with those moments until they are part of me, never to leave. The quiet, in-between joys of an ordinary life.
We always ring in the New Year with a dance party. Only… It isn’t REALLY ringing in the New Year, because we only pretend that it’s midnight. Because we are old, and we are crotchety, and we would rather do it at 8:45… and we are the grown ups at this party, so we will do it how we darned well please. There is J.T. There is Stevie Wonder. There is Michael Jackson. Chris and I perform a duet to Prince’s Kiss that would bring the house down, if the house had any taste or sense. But alas, the house has neither taste nor sense. So instead, the house hides under the kitchen table plugging their ears in mortification. We dance. We shout out our requests. We try to copy Harry’s complicated moves. Then about six songs in, it comes. The wave comes. I can feel it creeping in quietly around my edges. Seeping into my cracks that have become wider and more pliant with the music and the laughter. I look around, and you are all there. All five of you, moving to the music together. Laughing. Singing. Eyes closed. Wild, and completely free in this moment. And you are beautiful. Dear, God. You’re all just so beautiful. It’s the kind joy that leaves me bleeding. That cuts me into pieces. The kind of joy that whispers to me to take off my shoes and fully feel the floor beneath me, the kind of joy that tells me I am standing on holy ground. I blink fast to try and keep my tears in, this is not a crying type of Stevie Wonder song. But I can’t help it. So I scoop you up and hold you tight. I squeeze you to me, cheek to cheek. I close my eyes, and let the joy flood in. Let it seep into all my holes and cracks. And we dance.
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