chin up

http://youtu.be/R3kPH2MJzlg

It is only a season

Moonlighting

For the 10th or so time last week I was asked while waiting tables what my real job was....hum.

I was also asked if I was single by this same table because they have a friend who is in marketing and just loves gals who moonlight as waitresses. Seriously.

Well I must confess, having a 6 top of twenty something professionals assume I am young enough to be hanging with their hip single marketing friend was flattering...they even said he was a bit older...you know, like 28, but he was still cool...

ugh.

I handled it well I think. I said I was married and then to drive the point home I mentioned all the kids and then that one of them was a senior.

cue all the "oh my gawds" and youth flattery....then the question came. Well what do you really do?

I wanted to say "nothing, my life is meaningless" and then walk away.

But because this IS my job and I would like a nice tip I respond with "I stay home. I married an engineer. I raise kids. I thought I was going to be a musician." 

As a running joke in our house we often say restaurants are where musicians go to die. Seriously, we cook, wash dishes, work the fry, or wait the tables...but we all actually still think we can make it.
In the end, however, the restaurant is our job. We work hard and do it well. We do it hungover and never call in. We are polite to you and all your kids...and your parents (and their dietary restrictions). We do it for 2 bucks an hour plus whatever you deem to tip our services (that we share with our bussers, bar tenders etc). 
My point here is that most everyone I work with is a restaurant employee. It is our only job. We pay our bills with it.  

And strangely enough, most of us love it. Sure we all hate to fill your fucking diet soda 15 times in a half hour, and sometimes your need of "special" treatment is exhausting (no the bread is not gluten free)...and we all know you want a free dessert when you mention it's so-and-so's birthday. In the end, there are lots of jobs out there that need done, but it takes a special kind of person to drop what they are doing and listen to your story about your mom, actually mean it when we say "Happy Anniversary", and tell you jokes when we can tell you have had a bad day all while delivering pounds of homemade pasta. 
Servers are just that. They serve, and I would like to think that most of us do it graciously. 
No, I am not moonlighting as a server. That's okay with me. I think I am good at it. I am proud that I can contribute to our family income. I think I look pretty good in a bow tie. 

And until the money rolls in with the music (hehehehehe) I can keep this gig up with a smile on.

love, actually

As a parent I have had the not so unique experience of watching my 11 year old daughter fall for a boy for the first time. I say not so unique only because each and every parent will go through a first crush with  their child. For me strangely, it brought back a season of my own childhood that I had long since tucked into the heart on my sleeve. My first sincere feelings for another human other than my family...love, actually. 

Just like me, Piper fell for a boy who likes basketball, is quiet and kind, polite...and her friend first and foremost. He introduced her to hip hop and motor cross, the NBA and the awkward feeling every kid has when their crush knocks on their door for the first time. It is both sweet and terrifying.

Though I was only a seventh grader, the type of love I felt was more along the lines of curiosity and comfort in the acceptance and mutual interests of a certain boy. I would never have spoken to him (out of shyness and for the very fact that we may have never met) if not for the outcome of my parent's divorce when I was dislocated from our family home and relocated to a completely different neighborhood. I was isolated and alone and ... well, lonely. It is strange really after over twenty years I can recall each and every particle of the foison of emotions that I felt through this time. Some burn bright and still flare when I think on them, some drift in a fog, a distant coating of the background, a type of impressionist painting. 

I was used to a neighborhood teaming with tweeners. With the constant doorbell rings and pebbles thrown at windows to invite me to early or late pick-up ball games. Over nights, swimming pools, canoe rides in the local lake. It was a child paradise. And it was all behind me. As were my friends. It was weird,  I was now a sort of pariah...the lone wolf of divorced parents. It felt like in my upper class suburb, my old friends and their parents treated me as if it was contagious, as if I was contagious...Fuck, maybe I was. First the invites and phone calls stopped...Then the it was as if I never existed at all. I would like to say that once we all ended up in the same high school things got better....but really I just couldn't compete. Figuratively and literally. My mom was working class now, not some posh stay-at-home with an allowance. Sport were expensive, lessons were expensive...everything was expensive and I felt both the burden and the pressure of it all. And then we had to move.

It started like any other first meeting between kids in a relatively uncomfortable situation. My mother's side of the family was helping my mom and I, and the tag along siblings, unload the moving van. Full of her half of all the shit my parents had accumulated over the 15+ years of marriage, we were all long into the day and sinking further and further into the solemness of our task. Reality had sunk in and I watched as my mom slipped between bouts of uncontrollable crying short bursts of anger and sudden fatigue, then back again. I was exhausted and pissed off and all I wanted to do was shoot hoops with my friends...who now lived far away in the land of My Life is Still Normal while I was brooding in Fuckitall Town. I didn't even have a basketball goal anymore as it had the luxury of staying firmly embedded in concrete at our old family home. Lucky fucking me. (yeah, I know I was feeling sorry for myself, but I was 13)

So anyhow, there I was, sort of half-ass moving things from the truck to the garage when I heard the familiar thumping I so loved. The rhythmic hollow pound of a basketball hitting asphalt...and it was coming closer. I peered out from behind the moving truck as not to be caught by whomever it was, and I watched as a boy about my age dribbled the ball up the street and past my house to come to a stop in front of the last driveway on the block (conveniently located next door to my new house)...where nestled in the ground was an old worn out goal and a torn net. It was like a lifeline. 

We made eye contact in that strange way humans do that can only be described and as immediate acceptance. As an adult this is often referred to as chemistry or even love at first sight. For kids this is a mutual understanding and need. Maybe for friendship, maybe for someone to confide in...maybe out of shared loneliness. For the two of us it was a little of all these things....and the catalyst was the game of basketball. I looked around and realized everyone else was inside lifting or unpacking so I walked over and stood to the left of him and waited my turn. We fell into a pattern immediately just shooting and dribbling, sometimes working in some defense and blocking but really all we were doing was feeling each other out. After a while I noticed movement on my drive and saw that they were back at it so I walked home to continue my part. I realized two things. We hadn't said a single word and I didn't know his name.

The next day I was in my room in the basement when again I heard someone dribbling a basketball. I unlatched my basement window and slipped though the opening sticking my head up and out of the window well. There he was again. I threw on my shoes and headed out the garage door. Once again we fell into a pattern of basketball play but this time we spoke. All he said was "my name is Jason". All I said was "my name is Tammy". It was enough and we played until it started to become dark. 

This became our daily ritual. I would wait to hear him and then I would head out. After a while I started to wait in the driveway and even in the neighbor's driveway under the net. We started to become familiar with each other's habits and started talking a bit every now and again. But never a lot. We shared water out of those giant plastic blue cups everyone had back then and sometimes we even shared a snack cake or the occasional soda. Mainly we came together for the companionship. A partnership really. It was much different then the herd of kids I was used to playing basketball with in my old neighborhood. It was better. It was real friendship.

Then we really started to talk. We talked about music. We talked about public school...which I knew nothing about. We talked about my parent's divorce. We talked Led Zeppelin and punk rock. About soccer ...which I also knew nothing about, and David Copperfield. We talked about constellations and favorite cereal, the trains in Parkville and staying home while both your parents worked. And sometimes when we had nothing to say, we didn't need to talk at all again. This was one those friendships that people write novels about and make into a TV series....We had our own soundtrack and all the innocence adolescences affords. This was the very boy that snuck the Schnapps out of his parent's liquor cabinet and pulled up a lawn chair with me while we talked about the stars existence one fall night. We were in our Golden Years. Or Golden Year (ish) to be exact...We made it until summer. We made it to the point where we entered each others houses, dined at each others tables and talked to each others parents. We made it to the point where we held hands and sat too close to each other when no one was around. 

It was summer and all the parents worked. The whole neighborhood was unsupervised. This was my first summer there and it was completely different than I was used to. There were no stay-at-home moms bringing us donuts and Gatorade after swim practice. There was no one to check in with during the day unless you called their work. We all had unlimited freedom and limitless time. It was a recipe for disaster. My Grandma Aggie was at our house to take care of my younger siblings during the day but I could do basically what ever I wanted.

And it turns out there were kids in this neighborhood after all. I just didn't really fit in too well. I was naive and gullible and hadn't really tested any boundaries before. I was a bit uncomfortable for a while but found my groove, got on the swim team (which competed and always lost miserably to the powerhouse team of my old neighborhood) and started to socialize. 
There were kids from my private school that lived in the other side of the neighborhood and I started to hang out with them every now and again, though they were already pretty tight and I was new to the circle.....And then there was Travis....

Travis. What can I even say about him. He went to my school and I had known him for years. In sixth grade I thought he was cute. He was and still is quite a handsome guy. He was a trickster, a jokester really. He had no off button and pushed every envelope thrown at him. He only colored outside the lines. He was a typical 13 year old boy in the sense that he was rude, gross, and completely insensitive to human feelings. He lacked empathy and never ever got caught. 
He was also the most fun, the most daring, and lived only a couple blocks away.
Miracle of Miracles that somehow Jason and Travis didn't know each other yet.

Then I made a huge mistake. Cue screeching halt to partnership....You know what they say about a third wheel? Well it was me that became that third wheel. The odd man out...actually odd girl out, but whatever. It all started innocently enough.

I had bumped into Travis at the neighborhood pool and thought,"hey, Jason usually keeps to himself, but he may like Travis and since we only live a couple of blocks away....."
I don't know, it seemed like a good idea so I invited him over to our street and they had an instant liking to each other. They both played soccer, they both played soccer on Nintendo, they both like the same music....they were both boys. Suddenly I was the one with less common interests. No more basketball chats...they wanted to ride bikes to Parkville to pay for lunch at the diner in pennies (why?), play soccer, shoot off fireworks, jump fences and break shit. They skateboarded...better and faster than I did even though I had been skating since 5th grade. They liked Dr. Dre...and knew all the words. 

I didn't....
at all.
I grew less cool with each passing moment. They snuck out at night to do....well nothing really but they did it. When I tried, I got caught. Then there was a whole group of boys...doing boy things...having boy hangouts...living in the glory of their testosterone laden youth.

Suddenly I was sort of in the way. Not really sort of actually, I was in the way...of Travis. And the best way to get me out of the picture was to have Jason dump me. 

Now we weren't exactly an item, but we weren't exactly not an item.  
One afternoon I am quietly hanging inside. It was a Thursday, meet day and we weren't supposed to play outside in the heat so we could stay hydrated and swim our best that evening. The doorbell rang and Jason was out front. 
Weird. He knew I had a swim meet and he had been acting stand-offish lately so I had given him space and been feeling sorry for myself (again I was still 13).He asked if I wanted to come over and hang inside his house for a while. 
Also weird, as his mom and dad had made it very clear that no girls were allowed in the house while they were at work. But I am glad to see him and happy to come over if just for a little bit. I missed him and knew Travis was either headed over to his house soon or they would be hanging out later as they were now inseparable....And Travis could go inside the house because he was not a girl....(I was clearly the safer option, but whatever).

Not one to over-think things too much, I put on my imitation Birks and followed him down the street a few houses to his front door. I had a gut feeling that this was a bad idea, but I chalked it up to the guilty conscience I was having for entering his parents home without permission. I headed for the living room but he pulled my arm and said "I need to talk to you and it is private, and Aaron (brother) is in there. We can talk in my room".

Now all my internal bells and alarms were sounding....Jason was acting weird. Really weird, but again, desperate to have him to hang out with again I followed him to his room where he lead me to the foot of his bed and told me to sit down because he had to tell me something.

Then he said the most heard and most heartbreaking phrase every soul has had to listen to at least once in their lifetime.

"I don't want to go out with you any more".

This was all said while I was peering into the knowing gaze of David Copperfield flamboyantly posed on a poster.

"ok....don't cry. Just stand up and escape as fast as you can.
That was what I should have done, but instead....I remained still and FUCKING STARTED CRYING!
Now there was a brief shadow that passed over Jason's face. I knew he felt bad but I think I also knew it was coming. I stood with ZERO dignity and made it out the front door before the waterworks really started. I was almost to my house when I heard a familiar voice yell "Tammy....Tammy why are you crying?"
I turn around to see none other than Travis standing on Jason's porch taunting me.
Taunting me! 
"I hate you" I yelled.
"I hate you and this is all your fault!"
But that little shit, all giggling delivered the worst part of all..."I was in his closet! hahahaha...I heard the whole thing! And I video taped it. I video taped you getting dumped and crying!"

I would like to say that I was able to extract some sort of vengeance upon them both...but Travis ran inside and proceeded to tease me mercilessly from the front window behind locked doors.
I was a mess and false started twice during my butterfly swim that night. 

So now if you are still reading I just want to tell you that coming of age is hard for everyone, and clearly I was no exception. These weren't bad guys, just 13 year old boys. I don't believe for one second either of them thought that this would be one of those memories that sticks with you for a lifetime. What was a big deal to me was just another prank to them. I never found out if they actually recorded the breakup. Travis would make the occasional threat through out the rest of the summer when I saw him, but at the end of the day he just wanted me out of the picture (I really wasn't very much fun back then).

Jason and I didn't speak for almost an entire year. When we did the first thing he said was "I'm sorry". 
That was enough.
He and Travis and a couple other boys started a punk band. Somehow I was involved in the beginning of the project even playing a couple shows with them. Jason and the group rode it out a while without Travis (who had moved to a different band) and even made an album. It came out on tape. They were called 110 Volts. I took their photograph for their album art and still have all the original prints as well as the negatives...somewhere.

this was one of the pics for the album....^^^

During this whole process Jason and I became friends. Actual friends. My mother married a really great guy who had a son my age named Blake (he deserves his own entire chapter) and Jason and Blake became super tight. They went to college together, met a girl....Jason fell for her....and so on and so forth.

About 6 years ago Stephen and I were in Austin on our way to the coast. We met up with Jason for sushi and whiskey....because of coarse that is where he lives now. Long gone was the boy I had known, now replaced by a long haired hippie in a local band, wearing worn out second hand western shirts and a mile wide smile. He was still smart and pleasant and completely engaging in every way. Stephen loved him instantly. We learned about his band and his life...that he was now married to the very girl he met in college with my brother. 

Fast forward four years. I was sitting out front of a Caribou Coffee on 64th Street here in KC when I had a strange feeling. I was talking to my mom and was 6 weeks postpartum with Clover who was rocking in her car seat at my feet when suddenly I knew I had just seen Jason. Sure enough, pulling in the drive-thru was the whole beautiful family including a couple boys and a very lovely and pregnant wife....who I hugged.
"I knew it was you! I totally sensed you!" Thank goodness his wife is a hippie as well or that would have sounded super weird. When they left he said "bye mom" to my mom.
Then just 2 month ago Stephen and I were able to hang with Jason and Wife and all the kids at our house for a brunch. It was completely great and I adored her as much as I did him. The kids were awesome and they were both really interesting and dynamic people. I still felt connected to him...and her, and all the offspring. 

As for Travis....he is the craziest, luckiest SOB that ever did live and he is traveling the world, drinking copious amounts of booze, meeting all the beautiful and exotic people and doing it all behind the lens of his camera while under water. We still are in contact from time to time. I think he may be a bit of a Peter Pan though....and why should we all have to grow up anyhow?
  
He is part of this show here.
http://natgeotv.com.au/tv/into-the-drink/episodes.aspx 

https://www.facebook.com/intothedrink
and you can like them on facebook...hahahahahahaha.

As for love?..Actually, that is what is contagious. When you really love someone for all the right reasons...even for a season in life...even as a kid....Well, you somehow fall in love with everything they love. Somehow they are connected to you and you to them. Somehow that love helped form a piece of who you are and how you live. Because at the end of every day that is all that is left and all that ever mattered....love, actually.

Sell Out

Sell Out

So it is no big secret that I have been trying my whole life to make music. Make music and make it in music, though I will say making it has maybe avoided me rather well the last well, the last all the years I have been writing music. Let me just say rejection doesn't sting any less the 110th time as it did the first. Rejection is rejection is rejection.

However, this has not kept me from the constant submissions and playing out, and home recordings and studio time... Etc etc etc....

Now recently I had some feedback that was basically the death warrant for a singer song writer.

You Are NOT marketable.

Well shit.

So here is what I did. I listened to the feedback. 

I followed the rules and the requirements to make a palatable song for the American public.

I took my Texas country style and for one song squashed it like a bug. For one song, I sold out.

I SOLD OUT!!!! Me! And I did it to see if I could write a song that people would want to hear, that a music publisher would want to buy. Just once.

Now this was in no way easy in the sense that writing a song that rhymes and has easy lyrics and verses and catchy chorus.... Not exactly my forte, but all and all I do not hate my finished product. So tonight while munching on beef jerky and Thin Mints and a cheap glass of wine, I wrapped up the song. It is called Falling Up....

Feel free to judge.... But I think it may be a catchy mother (shut yo mouth).

Thanks for listening and as always, thanks for taking the time to read this blog. bTW JP you will be in my next post.

The Heart Song or Dream Catcher Part 2

The Heart Song

Dream Catcher Part 2

It is a fair statement and fact that today I am hungover. In the right way. After a heavy night of celebration and debauchery, first at a dinner thrown by Stephen's parents for his graduation, and then at a follow up at the casa, we are both truly and awesomely not even kind of rockstars. The eldest kids have left the house to go to a movie and Stephen is sleeping off some more of the fun that he had last night. The babies are pounding around the living room with drumsticks and a wagon and I am pretty content.

Today I read the kindest correspondence from a friend that I have ever received and fueled by a renewed since of self worth I begged a favor of my dad to share my music with some people he knows in the industry.

This is a first for me since before today I haven't been ready.

So I am putting my heart and all it's words out there for better or worse. My heart song...so to speak.

I actually have a song called Heart Song.

the heart song

So friends and all other people who read my blog...here is my soundcloud of a small selection of music I have written and recorded including some with the hubs and some he has written as well or is singing for me.

 

I may never hear back but I will keep on keeping on....but the easy way was not how the West was won...

so enjoy.

THE WEST

Here ^^^^ click and give it a listen

And a fun watch and listen down below.

LOVE YOU I DO

As always...thank you for reading and thank you for listening!

The Frozen Mallard

The Frozen Mallard

As the cold weather has laid his hand upon the Midwest, ghosts of memories have started to creep into the empty spaces of my mind. Tickled by the smells I had lost over time and images that were cradled in the head of my child self. Slowly, these thing have been awakened by a frozen lake that I see through my bedroom window each morning. 

There is a certain smell the rides the air on a frozen body of water. For a short time the liquid is able to seal it's skin away from what ever the world has to offer. Protecting itself. Creating a wall that is both awake and dead. Lucky son of a bitch.

Death is master of us all. Really one of life's only guarantees. 

Unpredictable, insatiable, self-sustaining and ever present. Death is lucky because he gets to be transparent. No one ever says, "You know, that asshole death really pulled the wool over my eyes. I didn't see that one coming."

I was 5 the first time I really saw what death was. Stillness. Quiet. Hard.

While growing up for the first 6 years of my life I lived in the small town of Lathrop. A lot of my family lived there as well, as that is sort of just what you do in a small town. You stay.

My dad's parents also lived there. Mam-maw and Pap-paw were sort of an anomaly doing a bit of everything in what ever form they felt. They spent months traveling each year in an RV but maintained there subterranean home on the outskirts of town. Each Christmas they gave us gifts from their travels. Mexican blankets, silver jewelry, hand sewn dresses, Budweiser Beer Steins, always something unexpected and something I had never seen or had before.

They owned a minimart marked by an old model T on the exterior of the building. It was called Shade Tree Inn. Pap-paw smoked meat in a barrel drum style smoker out front. They sold trucker hats and candy, cigarettes, cold beer and sodas, lottery tickets and dollar toys. His brother Pete was also there. They liked to sit out front and smoke, holding down the ground in folding lawn chairs of green and white stripes. Uncle Pete liked to wear hats with bad language and fake pony tails attached to them. He was never shy with affection and always only called me TammyMae. He slipped me candy when my parents eyes were turned and had a laugh that was hardy and loud. I always secretly thought he was Santa.

Mam-maw and Pap-paw also had a bar call the Oak Street Inn. It had pinball machines and a pool table. They served burgers and fries...and beer. I had an endless supply of change to entertain me every Saturday morning. This was used to quicken life into a spring that bounced silver balls, darting and knocking about as I left sticky finger prints from honey buns all over the glass. I was never reprimanded, only complimented on my lack luster score or my shiny strawberry blond hair, or my new tennis shoes. There was a comfort there that has since escaped me. As a child, trailing my fingers along the glossy shellacked bar top, stacking black ashtrays into towers, and occasionally finger painting bar coasters with blue and green pool cue chalk. 

this is the old Oak Street Inn building

(revised) it seems I am not the only one with a sentamental 
spirit as this is the Oak Street Inn back bar refinished by
my Aunt Carol...she left the cigarette burns 

These are memories that are exclusive to me, yet often they were shared with my cousin Alan. His mom and my dad were siblings. He was a bit older than I, though also found himself spending each weekend trailing our parents or wandering the endless adventures that bloom from imagination and limited years.

The story of the mallard is one such occasion.

Every winter the Midwest gets cold. Sometime a harsh, still cold, that comes sudden and calm, laying a bitter cast to the land. Nothing moves, there is no wind or breath. Everything is just caught. When I was 5 this happened. My cousin Alan and I were spending the afternoon at Mam-maw and Pap-paw's place. We were wrapped head to toe in layer upon layer of the tans and yellows and blues that were so popular in the 70's and early 80's. We both were wearing over sized snow boots, mittens and scarves and each with our own rolled up stocking cap adorned with a fuzzy ball atop. We had decided to traipse through the side property amongst the dried frozen brambles and hardened mud of the creek. Climbing our way out of the gully and warming ourselves in the sagging ancient barn that was supposed to be off limits. 

this is the actual barn.

 the pond has long since been filled in and the house is gone.

but the barn defies the years.

I remember the birds shuffling in the rafters stretching their wings and causing a stir of dust in otherwise empty silent air. Then Alan had an idea. We could check the pond. Maybe it would be solid. Maybe we could skate for a while. 

We struggled to stand as only coat laden children do and trekked to the edge of the silent glass. There just a couple feet from land was a mallard. He was on his side so only one eye could peer at us from his frozen prison. The green iridescence of his neck and brow seemed perfect. He body trapped under the ice with his head lying to the side of his wing. 

"Is he awake", I asked.

"I don't know. We should get Pap-paw."

So Alan and I clutched our mitten hands tight and took on the futile rescue mission of the frozen bird.

We walked to the mudroom door to the front of the house greeted by their lady blue. Grinning with one blue eye and one brown, unimpressed by the gravity of our situation, only wanting a pet and a word. We removed our layers of warmth and deposited it next to a bag of dry dog food, gas cans, cases of soda, and bait and tackle, for we knew better than to come into the house with boots on. I could feel the anxiety growing in me. We were calling for Pap-paw before we even had the door opened and were talking atop each other about saving the duck and how we needed a saw or an ax and maybe a hammer. 

I remember the feel of his hands on my back as his tried to get us to slow down, ushering us to the couch and telling us to talk one at a time. Taking the lead Alan explained how the mallard had some how fallen asleep and was stuck in the ice. How we needed to free him. Pap-paw listened and nodded and then said, "Well, show me your duck son, and I will see what I can do". 

Before I go on I will describe Pap-Paw as it will make so much more sense why we trusted that he could indeed save our duck.

Pap-paw had eyes that flowed from blue to green in lazy way a calm ocean does. They lay under brows with wild hairs that grew too long and crazy. He was not too tall and a bit rotund so he looked safe and strong and he had salt and pepper hair the grew in rolled curls in all directions. He wore overalls and sometimes just his tidy whities while sitting in his chair. He wore t-shirts that were as distant as his travels cross country. His voice hearkened a bit to the rooster Foghorn Leghorn from Loony Toons  with a drawl that created long pauses and emphasis on particular syllables that gave his words a rhythm both pleasant and defined. His nose was a bit short and his ears were a bit large and all in all, he was quite the fantastic hero for a couple of grandkids.

We rebundled and headed to pond's edge both grateful and determined that we could save the duck. As Pap-paw stood there staring down at the bird he grew silent. He had known, of coarse, that the mallard was dead before he came out with us, but he had taken it upon himself to teach Alan and I a very hard lesson. 

Death.

"I cannot save your bird, kids. It is too late. He is dead", Pap-paw told us. Making eye contact with the both of us waiting for understanding to set in. Alan was quicker than I was to catch on and started to pull me back to the house. "Let's find something else to do" he said, "Ducks are stupid anyways", again with another tug at my hand. But his eyes had started to swell a bit with tears and suddenly I understood. We couldn't save the duck. It was gone.

So instead we two stood there hand in hand with Pap-Paw a bit off to the side while hot tears rolled down our ruddy cheeks. We stared at the ice and no longer wanted to ice skate on the pond.

Pap-paw passed a bit before Halloween in 08. I was living in Florida at the time and was sort-of estranged from my family. My own doing, of coarse. My dad called and told me. It had been a long time since we had talked really. I was broke and working as a barista so there was no way to afford a ticket home to Lathrop to make the funeral. After we hung up the phone I thought about the mallard. My dad called back within 10 minutes offering to pay for my ticket.

It was a weird time as I stood in the rain, Beck, a few months old with me riding my hip after the service staring at a frozen hole in the ground. As I had yet to break the silence with my own family, I held myself away from them and thought about things that I remembered of Pap-Paw. My dad and his siblings and my siblings were under the tent so I couldn't see there faces but Mam-maw was in my line of sight. Her face said it all. 

They say Pap-paw had a hard time in the end. Remembering faces and getting angry. Sometimes people have to leave that way.

I lived in Lathrop at the old farmhouse until July of last year. About once a month I would head down to the cemetery to visit. Pap-paws headstone is always adorned with flowers and wreaths and such. My aunts doing, I am sure. Pap-paw is still an excellent listener and waiting patiently for the other person who's name is on his headstone to bounce about the next life with him. Road tripping.

I went the other day with Piper to visit. It was her birthday and she skipped school and rode my memory journey with me, taking pictures of me taking pictures.

I don't know what happens when we die. I would like to think that because we are made of energy that when we die our souls break into a million billion pieces and shoot out in every direction. Racing through the sky, glinting into stars and suns, riding the atmosphere and catching raindrops falling down to earth. Maybe landing in a pond. Maybe being breathed in right now by a million souls. Maybe our energy could keep going. Maybe.

Maybe death is just a way to give new energy to life. Maybe when we die we fly. 

revised: these are comments Mam-maw and Uncle Pete and Aunt Susan made and told me I could post>...so Pap-Paw also rode cats on his shoulders and named his cattle....who does that? What a great thing to know. I will continue to revise this post! PLease post in the comments and I will gladly update regularly!

revised

The Gift of Perspective

The Gift of Perspective

With help from Frozen and Zero Help from Tim Curry

This weekend we had the managers party for Herzig Engineering at the Bristol in Power and Light. This is a classy type joint with fresh seafood flown in twice daily. To say I was looking forward to this was an understatement. I hadn't been out of the house in weeks and I am not sure I even still knew how to get dressed in something other than leggings and t shirts.  My hair was done, my makeup spot on, and I was wearing my favorite 4 inch heals which happened to be attached to a pair of hand made natural leather boots from New York.

I felt like a million bucks-ish.

The big kids were watching the little kids and I had an entire paper of rules and directions. This was fool proof. I was getting a night out and I was going to eat my favorite food to boot....as fresh seafood is still a thing of my Florida living dreams.

So we arrive and I am one glass of wine in and working through raw oysters and crab leg apps when I get a buzz on my phone. 

It is a text telling me that the farmhouse Mother-in-Law's quarters is flooding....FLOODING out the side.

How is this possible? It is winterized!!! IT is still on the market, but no one is looking at houses like that right now. What is going on!

Well we say our goodbyes, stare longingly at the bottles of wine and smells of all things lovely from the sea and head to the car. We make the hour long drive to Lathrop to discover, that indeed the basement of the MOL building is flooding out the side....like over 6 feet of water flooding!!!

So the hubs realizes that someone turned on the water spicket and just left it running....filling the basement submerging the hot water heater etc, and flowing out the sides of the building. Glorious. How long had this been going on. As I was clearly going to be zero help, I stood there in the waters, in the freezing weather, and lit a cigarette. 

Stephen being the industrious man that he is decided to turn the water off at the source. Of coarse he didn't have the tools we needed so we rolled in to the Dollar General right before closing time to pick up a screwdriver, a wrench, a bag of peanut M&Ms and a 4 pack or Reeses. We then made our way back to the farmhouse where it was noted that someone had also plowed down our mail box...ya know, but by this time that is small potatoes.

So Stephen is crawling around on the ground under the glow of the headlights and I am scanning our mail. Neither of us eating seafood.

Lucky for us this was a pretty easy fix ...we shall see about the recovery, and we head home defeated. His parents drop off out entrees at the house.

  the next day we had tickets for the Frozen Sing Along at the MegaScreen at Union Station as we are either the worlds best or dumbest parents. (It is like a live Rocky Horror Picture show without Tim Curry in drag, the drugs, drinking, and sex...and aliens). So we load up the car with the babies, Piper, Beck and his bestie (who is a girl) and head out. I am still wearing my leggings from the night before, so I throw on a Crushed Out t shirt, tell myself I am setting a trend with my mutilated post evening Mohawk and mascara remnants in the corner of my eyes.

We take our seats and the babies last about 20 minutes before Stephen is taking them into the train area and I am sitting there watching Frozen....for the millionth time in a sea of blue fluffy dresses and fake blond wigs.

It then dawns on me...if I had made it through dinner I would be doing this with a wine hangover and going all kung pow chicken on a bunch of kids.

Perspective.

The past was done, the future was unknown....but here and now was a gift, that is why it is called the present.

So I unwrapped that shit, and with a bunch of tiny child Elsas at the top of my lungs I LET IT GO.