Three Girls Grown Up

Happy Anniversary to Me!

2007-11-04T21:37:00.000-06:00

Today is my 7th anniversary. Ain't it grand??

Love, True Love

2007-09-01T13:33:00.000-05:00

You know you've been married a long time when you have a conversation like the one I had the other morning with my dear husband which went something like this...

Me, sitting up on the edge of the bed about to start my day. Bone tired, exhausted.

Him: Where are you going?

Me: Going into the bathroom to kill myself.

Him: Try not to make a mess with the splatter.

Me: It's okay... I was going to just slash my wrists.

Him: How about I just smother you with this pillow instead?

Me: Sure, thanks dear. I love you.

Him: No problem, honey. I love you too.

Every moment is a Hallmark moment at the Russ household!

Let Their Be Ice!

2007-08-27T16:25:00.000-05:00

It's a cliche to see a cheesy sci-fi flick in which computers, machines, or some form of technology begins to run amok to the detriment of the well-meaning humans who created them.

It may be cheesy, but truthfully, I have one of those machines.

My friends will tell you I love ice and in all my many years I never had a refrigerator that made ice until my husband and I purchased our latest model of fridge when we remodeled our kitchen. My husband understood it was imperative that the new refrigerator spit cubes out reliably and generously. I would then be free from my enslavement by plastic ice trays that took up freezer space, cracked after long use and sometimes spilled all over everything.

My handy husband installed the ice machine into the freezer and we sat back and watched in wonder for our bounty of icy goodness to commence.

Our first batch of ice was partially black. BLACK! Rob said it had something to do with the charcoal filter installed in the line. We threw out that batch and waited for the next. That batch looked normal, but all the cubes were hollow on the inside. I asked The Hubster, "Dear, is our ice supposed to be empty on the inside??" He said no, definitely not.

Another adjustment later and the ice seemed to be coming out fairly normal. This went on until we felt comfortable with our official entre into the ice making world. I felt important and proud. I'd jump at the chance to give people icy cold beverages. My life had changed.

A couple of years ago I was showing homes to a client of mine. She was complaining that the houses they were looking at didn't have ice makers. I told her it was really no big deal, the fridges in the houses she was looking at already had ice makers. She corrected me saying, no, ice MACHINES, not ice MAKERS.

I had no idea that in one's own personal home one could have a consumer ice machine. Apparently this is a "just so" thing to have if you entertain. How could I not know this? I entertain, but it turns out the type of socializing I do is not really "entertaining". I am naive when it comes to these things.

So, am reminded of it all again and tell Rob about that 8th wonder of the world over dinner.

Later that night I realized we'd been using ice all day and the ice maker had not been producing replacement ice. My husband proceeded to check into the situation and said nothing was amiss and that we were just using it faster than we were making it.

In the morning, still no ice. Once again, The Hubster heaves himself under the kitchen sink knocking cleaning chemicals aside and groaning that he's breaking his back and was I trying to kill him and use the insurance money to lure another, younger, husband into my black widow's web? (I wasn't but I have to admit I've considered it more than once since he's put the idea into my head.)

As brilliant as my husband is with various household emergencies and dilemmas, he could not resolve the issue with the ice maker. I had to break down and buy a bag of ice from the store. I slammed it around on the back porch then emptied it into the ice bin, loudly complaining.

Not five minutes later I heard the ice maker kick on and some time after that, a batch of ice was dumped onto my store bought ice. I was thrilled the ice maker was working again. It tossed out a second batch and we assumed the problem was solved.

As soon as the store bought ice was gone, the ice maker stopped making ice again.

Over the last two years we have discovered something about our ice maker. It makes ice only under these circumstances:

-- When we purchase ice from the store
-- When we threaten to replace it

The real truth is that our ice maker has a real personality and it's mad, considering me disloyal by displaying my lust for the wonder of a consumer ice machine. I can't explain it any better than that.

In fact, in order to punish me further, the little wire thing on the ice maker that tells the machine to shut off has popped off and we can't seem to get it back on where it goes. I didn't worry about it because the machine wasn't making much ice anyway. We were having friends over for a barbeque, so we bought TWO bags of ice, filled the ice bin and an ice chest on the back porch, vociferously complaining about our stubborn ice maker and how ungrateful it was for the nice home we'd given it.

In true form, the ice maker, under the threat of replacement began to produce ice. It heard my final and powerful threat, "I mean it this time, darling, the ice maker has to GO. I'm so sick of this thing not doing its job!" It had to prove itself to me, that it could truly be the ice maker we had adopted. It made ice. And made ice. And made ice. There was no off switch any more. The ice flowed. It flowed over the bin, spilled out the side, erupted from the freezer each time we opened the door.

Despite the amused guffaws of our friends, we know the ice maker has a personality. Now in order to control the ice, I offer a varying mix of praise and scorn to lessen or increase the amount of ice it dumps into the bin.

Call me crazy, but it works.

Rob mentioned that he wanted to replace the ice maker on Saturday and I found myself talking him out of it. I said it was only about the money and it seemed silly to spend extra money on a new ice maker when this one seems to be working. But the truth is I feel that the machine and I have come to an understanding, a real working relationship, and I just can't give up on it after all this time.

Now, I just hope it's not reading my blog after I go to bed at night. I'm not buying one of those Internet-ready fridges, that's for sure.

Goodbye Reggie

2007-08-25T13:18:00.000-05:00

My neighbors, Reggie and Mags, live right across the street. They don't have much of a front porch, but they do have a couple of kitchen chairs that they have in their carport and that's where they sit during the summer. They like to watch my husband and I putter around in the yard. It's a funny feeling being someone's pasttime. I don't mind it except when my bottom is up in the air because I'm weeding the flowerbed. I'm sure they are just sitting over there talking about how wide it is. My husband insists they have more important things to talk about than my posterior side, but I just don't know.

Reggie was sick off and on, but an old, good natured guy. A couple weeks ago a big van came by and dropped off a hospital bed and some oxygen stuff. Hubby said it wouldn't be too much longer now. Mags looks like she's in a roller coaster car that's about to roll down the big drop. She sees it coming but can't do anything about it. I hold my husband a lot tighter at night than I have for a while.

Sure enough, Sunday we were out in the yard and Mags's sister Louella was sitting there in the carport where Reggie usually sits. Reggie was gone for good.

It's harder to sit on the porch now and not see anyone in that carport. A "for sale" sign went up in the yard two days ago. I'm gonna miss them both. We always had fun yelling stuff across the yard. Mags and I often stood at the mailbox and talked. From our porch we could see across their yard to the garden. Every year they had a huge garden and often brought us extra produce. The year before there was a drought and because they were on Social Security they could not afford the water they needed to keep the garden up. This year Reggie was sick. Again no garden. The fenced in spot is choked with weeds and rife with neglect.

There's probably a metaphor for life in there somewhere.

Yesterday and Tomorrow

2007-08-19T19:36:00.000-05:00

There are little boys sprouting up all around me.

Yesterday, Tristan walked three or four steps from the coffee table to the couch. He got about halfway between the two and stopped when he realized what he was doing and he chuckled his signature "heh heh" then took another couple of fast steps before he could lose his nerve. Yesterday he was 9 months and 9 days old and will probably walk a couple of months earlier than his brother did. I was hoping his common sense would catch up with this speed for movement, but it doesn't look like it will happen!

Tomorrow, Julius is starting school. First day of school. I've been saying that to myself over and over today as if saying it over and over will make it more real. I keep worrying I'm going to make a big doofus of myself tomorrow. It seems weird that I can take my son to the hospital for 10 surgeries and make it through that, but dropping him off at school seems like it will send me into orbit. I'm not ready for my little boy to grow up.

We've taken this life transition as an opportunity to get him to be more independent and sleep in his room all night and go to bed consistently at 8PM. We were expecting hysteria and arguments, but it's gone really well. The first night he asked his dad, "Why do I have to be in bed and Tristan doesn't?" My husband explained that Julius would have the opportunity to do lots of firsts in his life... be the first to go to school, drive a car... and Julius interjected, "And go to college." Dad said, "Yes, go to college, too." And, beaming, Julius said, "I can move far away!"

So, already my 4 year old son is planning his escape from home. Is he mature or does he hate living with his mother? I can't decide. :-)

His teacher is an old schoolmate of mine. We were in the same graduating class. That also seems exceptionally weird to me. Several times today my mind has drifted back to our high school days. I thought about the way we were back then and I wonder if someone had come back in time and told me that one day I would have two children and Lisa would be their teacher I would have never believed it in a million years.

I would have thought it was a life too ordinary for me. And some days, the dark days, I do think my life is too ordinary. But on other days I marvel at my good fortune. I live in a great place, modest but nice home, wonderful countryside, two adorable boys, hard working hubby, my own business, great friends.

All in all, I really couldn't ask for any better yesterdays and tomorrows.

The Sign

2007-07-16T10:45:00.000-05:00

Still in our pajamas, fresh from a date with dreams, Selah and I sat on the swing in the front yard. We thanked God for the moist grass, the yellow sky, the watermelon crape myrtle in the neighbor's yard, the coffee brewing inside, Hamlet, Zoe, Nic, Moxie, Elsa and Daddy. Always Daddy.

I sang softly. Jesus loves me. This I know. The breeze from our swinging swept my hair in tickles across our cheeks. I was holding on to the moment as snugly as I held the girl.

A small, beat-up, red truck turned the corner onto our street, gliding past the houses at a sleepy pace. A petite, olive-skinned woman sat in the passenger seat. The ragged, straw cowboy hat perched on her head shadowed her eyes, but not her dazzling smile. Her window was down. She was enjoying the cool morning, too.

She spotted us on the swing and leaned forward. She raised her arm and pulled a closed fist against her heart. She brought it to her mouth in a kiss and back to her chest, where she drummed it gently, firmly.

"Yes, I am. I will." I spoke to the air. But she heard and nodded. And left me with her beautiful, knowing, teaching smile.

Your Chicken is Under the Microwave

2007-07-16T10:08:00.000-05:00

"Selah, your chicken is under the microwave."

I believe those were the first words I said this morning as I placed Selah in her Johnny-Jump-Up. Just to clear things up-- I was referring to her felt finger puppet chicken, the one that 'sits' (no pun intended) on her SoftPlay Farm book and puppet theater. I can't tell you where Sheep and Cow are.

I find myself saying some very interesting things these days. Things I'd have to explain to the inexperienced ear.

There's : Do do nee un didie change? That's baby talk for 'Do you need a diaper change?' I try to keep the baby talk to a minimum. You know, to keep myself from slipping into motherhood insanity and, well, to ensure that Selah has at least the IQ of Einstein. (Did I spell that right?!)

There's: Let Mamma get that boog. I gently coo this as I wrangle with WWF champ Selah to remove an unsightly formation from her precious little nose.

How about: Which side do you want? Hint: Nursing mothers will get this in an instant!

And then there's: Will you hold her a sec so I can go to the bathroom? You may be wondering what one has to do with the other. Try taking care of business with a 20-pound, wriggling creature attached to your hip, tummy, chest...then we'll talk!

There is one that needs no explanation. One that fills the chatter between me and Selah more often than any other. One that makes perfect sense to all who hear it. I love you, Selah, my joy, my sweet.

My Girl

2007-07-07T12:51:00.000-05:00

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day.

When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May.

I'd guess you'd say--what can make me feel this way?

My girl, my girl, my girl.

Talkin' bout my girl. MY GIRL!

(Westlife lyrics)

Making Choices

2007-07-07T12:39:00.000-05:00

I've decided to ask myself some questions when deciding how to spend my time, energy, money, resources. In my quest for a richer, more meaningful, productive life, I will ask myself --

Does this serve God, my family, friends and community?

Will this improve or strengthen my relationship with God, my family, friends and/or dogs?

Will this improve or benefit my health and well-being and that of my family, friends and/or dogs?

Will this create or support a loving, nurturing, joyful environment for me and my family?

Will this provide inspiration, focus and time for writing and other creative endeavors?

Will this eliminate stress and help me to be a happier, healthier, more whole wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend?

Will this lead me closer to the accomplishment of my dreams in regards to working with/helping animals, writing and acting?

If I can honestly answer 'yes' to at least four of these questions regarding a decision, I can do it. If not, I will say 'no' and reevaluate it another time. Let's see how it changes my life and the lives of those around me!!!

A Quiet Moment with My Son

2007-06-15T10:57:00.000-05:00

My son and I were lounging around looking at a toy catalog. He pores over this thing for hours telling me his favorites and asking me which are my favorites and which ones did I think were T's favorites and what about his dad's favorites, too?

He pointed out one that he said was too expensive to buy. I told him those were fun to save for special times like birthdays or Christmas or for Santa gifts.

He nodded in understanding as he browsed on and then he looked over to me and said, "We should go to the North Pole and thank Santa for the nice gifts he got me last year."

How proud I was... this was proof I was doing something right as a mother. My son wants to go personally thank someone for a gift he received and he thought of it all by himself. I was gratified, elated!

"You are so sweet to think of that. How wonderful." I wanted to be as encouraging as possible. I'm raising a future fabulous citizen of planet earth!

Continuing on with his plans for this future trip, J says, "Well, me and Dad will go anyway. You're too big -- you'll break the ice up there."

Gratifying moment over!

Fish Saga Ends

2007-02-15T15:08:00.000-06:00

I'm driving around in weather that is insanely cold. Without a coat. My four wheel drive is on because I'm in several inches of mud. I'm an intrepid Realtor showing property while I can't feel the tips of my fingers and my mouth is so cold I talk like I've been to a dentist who is overenthusiastic about the uses of Novacaine.

Finally I get to my car where my cell phone is sitting in the cup holder (instead of on me, much to my husband's perpetual discontent). Three missed calls, all from home. I wonder what's going on over there. I return the call, no answer. Also no answer on my husband's cell phone. No answer on my mom's cell phone (she's at my house helping hubby with the kids). Three calls to me, three calls to them. No connection.

Through more inches of mud, my back end sliding til I hit a dry spot. The phone rings and I fumble around with still icy fingers trying to open the phone and get it to my still numb face. It's my mother. "There's been an accident."

I feel the urge to vomit. "What is it???"

She launches into the tale in great, minute detail and will not be interrupted by me yelling at her "Is J okay????" I will tell you, though, that he is okay so you won't agonize over the outcome and can enjoy the story as I do now, looking back. It was not one to enjoy while it was happening.

As you know, we have been having problems with the fish, a long drawn out adventure thrust upon us by sadistic relatives. The three hardiest fish were stable and secure and looked like they might be in this relationship for the long haul. I had relaxed ever so slightly.

Their tank sat solidly on my son's dresser where I faithfully checked them each day when I got J's clothes for the day. (Left to his own devices he picks his Batman costume to wear to daycare every day.) With me being gone into the boondocks, his father sent him to his room to get his own clothes.

He pulled out one drawer. He pulled out another drawer. He pulled out a third drawer. Not being a master of physics like we grownups are, J did not realize that when one pulls out three drawers on a tall, 5-drawer dresser that the dresser will come tipping forward. Whether your four year old body is standing in front of it or not. Whether there is a really big fish tank on top of it or not.

It comes crashing down and it sends a big glass fish tank down on top of you, cracking you into your little noggin with its sharp pointy corner, followed by a big dresser landing on top of you and flattening you like a pancake.

At this point in the story, remember, my mother still hasn't told me if my son is okay or not and I'm still spinning through six inches of mud.

Finally, yes, she tells me he is fine but has a black eye. I figure he's lucky to have ANY eye and feel like killing his dad even though I know it's not his fault. But, really, who else would I kill?

The fish are another story, of course. The fish come flying out, along with many gallons of water, fish pee, and twelve tons of colored gravel. They bounce along the carpet until they skid to a stop in various places around the room with four adult feet stomping in trying to heave a dresser off my son's crumpled body.

Miraculously, they survive. The sad part of this story, I realize later, is that they can survive all that, but they cannot survive me.

My mother ends up putting them in a glass where I find them sitting on the counter when I arrive home. I call my brother who is a fish genius and beg him to take the fish home. "They cannot stand more abuse. You must save them, I'm begging you."

He arrives later to take them home, transporting them in a Ziploc bag that he stuffs into his coat pocket. I asked him if that was a bad idea, hauling them like that. He assured me they would be fine and were in more peril from the cold than anything else.

So, they have found a new home and until I am told otherwise, I'm assuming they are still safe and sound and enjoying their life with someone who does not suffer from piscean-incompetence.

Editorial note: I got email from a nice reader who informed me that it's bad for the environment to flush fish down the toilet. The proper way to dispose of fish is to bury them like you do other pets. So, now we're all a little bit smarter about fish remains.

Little Bachelors

2006-12-16T23:55:00.000-06:00

I live with three men now... my husband and two small, handsome bachelors. The latest one whinnies like a horse until you roll him over on his belly. That's the latest thing I've learned about him since he came into our lives five weeks ago. Here he is pictured in his latest super-cheesy cheesecake shot in nothing but a diaper on a leopard skin blanket. Hubba hubba!

I cannot express what a lovely joy it is to be lying on the couch with one little guy snuzzled under my chin and my other little guy tucked under one arm. "Mommy's got TWO boys and Daddy's got NO BOYS!" Julius and I giggle sadistically at Dad's pouty face looking over at us in heart-wrenching mock sadness.

It's good to be queen!

Digging in December

2006-12-11T17:10:00.000-06:00

I am working just north of Kansas City . . .it is December . .. and the first day out, the temperature was in the teens . .. brrrrrr. My toes were cold. All of me was cold! We are testing a site where a railroad track will be put down - they are straightening the tracks, actually. The site is not too exciting. A handful of flakes. The digging is good, soft dirt until you hit the lower levels (60cm) where it is like concrete. egads. The weather warmed up after that first day, so it is not so difficult to be out there. My muscles are remembering how to dig so many levels in a day and how to screen them. My feet are remembering how to walk up a steep hill . . .again. I have to relearn that one every other week. I think my muscles must atrophy in rapid order while I write my reports.

Anyway, that is how unexciting my life is. . . how are those girls doing with those babies?????

:)

Raining babies

2006-11-18T09:38:00.000-06:00

Well, here it is November of 2006 and my two good friends each now have brand new babies. The second for Wendy and the first for Shannon. What a world.

I bet we won't hear from them on this blog for awhile as they will be busy sleepless bees.

I myself am leaving town every ten days for one project or another. I was just in Ohio. Not at all what I expected. We were surveying the Wayne National Forest in southeast Ohio. It is part of the Appalachians and thus very hilly. Not what a flatlander is used to, not to mention the trees and greenbriars. The only good thing is there were no leaves on the trees (making it easy to see and move through the forest) and it was not hot!

I liked Ohio. I did get to see some of the famous burial mounds, Adena and Hopewell. These were very sophisticated and interesting folks who built very large mounds on top of their loved ones once the passed. This was between 1000BC to AD 1200.
Other than those mounds (which we visited), we found mostly evidence for coal and clay mining. They moved a lot of dirt in the early 1900's!

Well, that's all I have to report and now I have to go back to writing my report. Let's keep our fingers crossed and hope we hear from those other two girls soon.

:)

And Then There Were Three...

2006-08-15T16:12:00.000-05:00

I insist you stay with me. I will not go through this alone.

You know that saying "belly up"? It's not really true. So far, not one dead fish has floated to the top of the tank. Today I found another one decaying at the bottom of the tank, it's color leeching out. Bloated white with one dark, staring eye.

I'm creeped out.

I begged the fish owner to please take her fish. She told me to do what I want with them. "They are old," she says. Visions of my future come sweeping over me, my sons wheeling me up to the nursing home admissions desk to check me in for my long stay. "You can do what you want with her. She's old."

Am I a pessimist? One of my sons is three. The other hasn't been born yet. Yeah, I guess I am.

I never used to be, but I think it's the fish. They are turning me into a fatalist.

Don't leave me.

English, Southern Style

2006-08-02T21:32:00.000-05:00

I'm from the South and I love the quirkiness of the culture, although it's certainly not without its trials and tribulations.

When I got married I was on a temporary hiatus from the country, living as a Southern expatriate out in the wooliness of various Southern California cities. I even married "one of them" and brought him back home. (Actually, HE brought ME back home, but that's another story for another day.)

He had to become accustomed to living in the South. First of all, we persuaded him to wear less jewelry so as to appear like a native. Men here do not wear necklaces or earrings typically. My mother went so far to insist that he not tell anyone he was from California which I really thought was overdoing it. However, I did talk him out of purchasing a Dallas Cowboy baseball cap while were waiting around in the Dallas airport. It's one thing for people to know he is from California, but heaven forbid people think I married a TEXAN.

We are both Realtors and doing country real estate is far different than in the city where, first of all, they have ROADS and second, the roads actually have names. Until about 4 years ago most of our roads didn't have any names. Directions generally went like this: "Go north out of town to Clete Huckabee's house and turn right at the corner. Go 1/4 mile to the big oak that marks the section corner, just past which is a burned down trailer next to a logging road. Four wheel drive necessary. Cabin at end of road just across creek bed."

My husband always makes fun of those descriptions and I even caught myself doing it the today. He asked, "Where is Hummingbird Mountain?" The easiest way I knew how was to say, "You know where the old Hallie's place was?" He said no. I persisted. "YOU KNOW... where that old store is with the cages where they kept the wild animals up on the hill. Old Hallie Ormond's place." He looked at me patiently with a long pause and finally said, "You're doing it, you know."

These days most of the roads have names, although many of them don't have signs because people steal them because they are cool or steal them because they don't like the name of the road. And even sometimes calling them roads is a stretch. But we're getting there.

There were also a few language barriers that my husband has had to overcome. I occasionally am required to act as a native translator, although he mostly has the hang of it by now.

PRONUNCIATION: Once we were in our office and a salesman was explaining to us the merits of a very expensive GPS unit we were about to buy and was telling us how we can use it to see the "layers of the soul".

My husband's eyes widened in surprise and bewilderment. "The layers of the soul?"

The salesman, very excited that Rob was getting into the groove of his pitch said, "Yes!"

I passed by, rolling my eyes and said out of the side of my mouth, "Soil, honey, he's saying soil."

I made terrible fun of that whole scene but not a week later I received my karmic payback with an embarrassing language fiasco of my own. I was spending some time with a client who had grown up in the river valley here and he was giving me the rundown of the old dead town that used to be near his property before the railroad was diverted. He said, "When I was a kid, during the war, they had a cannon factory here."

"A cannon factory?"

"Oh yes."

"They made cannons for the war here?"

"Uh, no, you know, like tomatoes and stuff. They canned them here."

Right.

NOMENCLATURE: It is very common for people here to refer to lunch as "dinner" and the evening meal as "supper". It's not that big a deal except when you also use those expressions as measures of time. In the South things are very laid back and people do not set appointments by the clock but rather by what segment of the day they will fall into. For example, "Just come by the house after dinner and I'll sign those papers." It helps to know if dinner is their midday meal or their evening meal!

CONTRADICTORY PHRASEOLOGY: My favorite one that turns Rob completely inside out is the expression "I don't care to." Here is his first encounter with this expression.

ROB: Would you like to go ahead and sign the papers now?
OLD LADY: I don't care to.
ROB: Oh, okay. We can do this later then.
OLD LADY (now agitated): Give me that pen, I told you I don't care to!

Sometimes in the South "I don't care to" means "I don't mind to" NOT "I don't want to".

***

Recently I had a horrible conversation with an attorney from California who indicated that he found Southern culture despicable (while managing to remind me during the time he was berating me that he makes $350 per hour). After getting off the phone I had to roll my eyes at the close-mindedness that will deny him the sweet, honey-butter warmth that is the South and its inhabitants. If you close yourself to it because you think Southernors are uneducated, simple folk you miss out on the magic and subtleties of their humor, generosity and fascinating outlooks on life. The true native Southernors are a dying breed, an endangered species to be cherished while they last (y'all).

The Little Funeral

2006-07-30T10:44:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we lost another fish, quite unexpectedly. The thought had crossed my mind that the little sharkie looking fish wasn't eating like he had been but I still remain optimistic that things will turn out okay no matter how many times they do not.

My son and I went to the tank to see how everyone was and there he floated, bobbing up and down, pushed around by the dinosaur spewing bubbles from the bottom of the tank.

I told Julius we'd have to flush him down the toilet and he was really excited about, way more excited than I thought decent. I tried to put an appropriate solemn tone to the whole process reminding him that when animals die they don't come back to life ever again so we needed to be sad and thoughtful about it for a little while. He wasn't.

He ran to the bathroom and stood waiting for me to carry the fish in and dump him into the toilet bowl. We stood there for a moment and gave a thoughtful eulogy for He Who Has Passed Before Us:

Dear God, thank You for the enjoyment we received from this fine fish. We're very sorry that he died. Amen.

And then we flushed and he swirled off into the great ocean in the sky.

The Fish Curse

2006-07-15T09:07:00.000-05:00

The fish curse is strong within me. I had forgotten about this until my niece, Janine, came asking for a favor. Would I keep her fish for a while?

My immediate response was to oblige her since my son had been given a fish tank by his grandmother. She'd been telling us for months that he needed a tank, our response to which was to smile agreeably and nod, then completely dismiss the idea out of hand. Eventually, Grandma not being a stupid person, became wise to our clever little game and that Christmas put a tank for our son under the tree.

If you imagine her cackling, head thrown back and her hand slapping her knee when we unwrapped that gift, you'd hold a fairly accurate picture in your mind of what happened that fine Christmas morning.

So, we had this tank but had been avoiding setting it up for various rational and irrational reasons such as my husband thinking it would make the floors of our very old house separate from the walls. Or the thought of my three year old son being able to resist the siren's call of five gallons of water sitting around unguarded in his room. I know for a fact this is a problem for little boys.

-- .*. --

One morning in the summer of 1960 my mother woke up to find the family goldfish bobbing headless in their tank. My brother, asserting his independence, showed remarkable survival skills by getting his own breakfast. Up to the tank he pulled a chair, then climbed aboard. He reached into the tank neatly plucking out one fish after another then biting off their heads before returning the bodies back to the tank.

-- .*. --

So, after hastily agreeing to keep Janine's fish I did add a warning caveat that our family has a history of fish killing.

-- .*. --

Once in college someone asked me if I would house sit while she had her galbladder removed. She had a great place and all I had to do was water her plants and feed her fish.

What I didn't understand until later is that one of her fish, named Oscar, was a crazy Hannibal Lecter kind of piscean who, while I was out, would set to gobbling up the fins of his tank mates. Day after day I watched in horror as the fish evolved from happy bright-eyed swimmers to listless amputees whose fishy souls looked like they were about to evacuate their bodies.

Each day that I came home to a new horror I wished Oscar would meet some horrible fate of his own. It's natural for us to root for the underdog and hope that The Hand of Fate will reach in to teach the bully some poignant lesson about life. Or at least open a big can of whoop-ass on him.

Little did I realize that The Hand of Fate would use me as its agent and that it would be my loving care and supreme diligence that would be Oscar's undoing.

The tank slowly began to turn green. I knew nothing about tank ecology so I watched helplessly as the fish began to disappear in the murk. I couldn't stand it anymore so I thought perhaps changing out the water might help, which did for everyone except the cannabalistic Oscar who I ended up trapping under a piece of tank equipment where he subsequently drowned. This fact I didn't figure out until later after several days of wondering where he could possibly be. I attributed it to some aquatic version of the Rapture until I finally figured out the truth.

I've tried killing fish on purpose, in the form of fishing, but have been relatively unsuccessful at it. It seems as if I can only manage to kill fish accidentally and at random. I had caught my line on a log so I yanked it, very angry and agitated. And 'lo -- here comes a big fat bass flying out of the water. I had hooked him from the outside of his mouth as he swam by. That had to be one of the world's most unfortunate fish.

-- .*. --

Two days after Janine asked me about keeping the fish, they all arrived at my door. She set the tank up and as I watched had this pleasant, warm feeling that I'd turned the corner on my dark fish past.

Every day my son and I would feed the fish. About a week into our fish sitting I noticed one of the fish was changing color. He was getting darker, splotchy. He had funny bumps on him the next day. His fins were turning red. Occasionally he'd lean slightly to one side then right himself.

Thus began the death watch, the daily torturous trek to the tank to see if the fish would be floating belly up. But daily he struggled on far longer than I ever expected.

Then one day after leaving my son home with another little boy under the supervision of the cleaning lady, my son excitedly described to me how he and Zack had held the fish in their hands and it jumped out and landed on the carpet. I could tell by the way he told the story that it was one of his prouder moments.

I raced to the tank and the fish was still there, still swimming! Being a glass-half-full kind of girl I praised the resilience of God's tiny creatures and proceeded to ground my son and give him a stern lecture on the merits of kindness and compassion all of which he completely ignored, being three and all.

The next day the fish was lying at the bottom of the tank, one lifeless eye pressed against the glass staring at me full of blame and accusation.

My husband retrieved him from the tank with a plastic slotted spoon and gave him a burial at sea by way of the toilet, only when I went in there later he was still there -- lying silent and staring at the bottom of the bowl.

Adak and fog

2006-06-18T01:01:00.000-05:00

Here I am on Adak Isand in the Central Aleutians doing archaeology - what fun. I am not used to having the ability to log onto the internet and blog, since we usually are in remote places, but this is quite a civilized island with an infrastructure of roads and buildings left by the Navy and currently used by native Aleuts and others for fish/crab processing out here in the more remote corners of the Bering Sea. Dutch Harbor, made famous by the deadliest catch on the Discovery channel, is far to the east.

I am here with Dixie West and the Central Aleutian Archaeological and Paleobiological Project (CAAPP) and we are excavating a site discovered in 1999. Our team includes 3 professional archaeologists, 5 undergraduate students and 2 fishermen who fish these waters who volunteered and are taking there vacation helping us.

We have been out 2 days and are already encountering the remains of clams, cockles, mussels, sea lion, seal, and several kinds of fish and birds. and possibly some whale.

It is very cold and rainy and I am wearing 3-4 layers of fleece with a top layer of rubber to keep the rain off. It makes it very hard to take notes in the rain.

Well, I only have a wee bit of time to write, so I will try again another day

Punctuation

2006-05-18T16:22:00.000-05:00

I'm starting to think about life as a series of dramas strung together with a lot of nothing much interesting in between. At least my life anyway. It seems as if these days I go from not-a-lot-going-on to something-horrible-going-on like a big, double exclamation mark at the end of a sentence.

I'd like some of those in-between times. I wonder if it is the nature of my work. All day I work with people in transition, people who have their own dramas going on in life. And so in my off-time I just like to sit like a lump and let my brain rest.

The other day I was watching a preview for a kids movie thinking how much I loved those adventure films when I was little and back then just wished so fervently that life was like Narnia or Oz or wherever the cool place was that year.

So, right now I'm looking for more Oz and less punctuation. I want more commas, dashes and elipses and less periods and exclamation points.

Simple Wishes on a Day of Death

2006-03-17T20:47:00.000-06:00

My friend died on March 5th. We were born on the same day, one year apart. He died from a gunshot wound that tore through his abdomen and earned him a helicopter ride from our quiet, country town to the nearest city capable of treating him.

He died anyway, leaving a wife and three young children behind, leaving questions with few answers.

The following morning began the task of helping hold the remaining pieces together and as I readied myself behind the closed door of my bathroom I remember looking in the bathroom mirror at my haggard, sleepless self. All that came to me were simple wishes for the day, small things that I hoped would turn out to be miracles.

Please let this orange shirt give me the strength of two women.

Let this water on my face revive me as if I'd slept all night.

Let this shower wash away sorrows from yesterday, only for a little while.

May the void in me not be filled with regret for what I've done.

Don't let the faces of small children make me cry.

Harden my heart enough to hold it together while leaving me with enough compassion to still be human. Can you, can you?

Please, God, grant me the wisdom to say all the right things today.

That day was spent with the family and fielding questions from helpful members of our community. Droves of them came with food and offers of assistance.

For a while I sat in the sunshine answering questions from two little girls, questions about where Daddy was, where heaven was and the twisted dagger of "Daddy's really not coming back?"

I ached for the lack of proper thing to say and found myself making up stories about heaven and Jesus, stories I don't believe but which the girls began to embrace enthusiastically. I thought if I comforted them long enough it would comfort me in turn. I think it did a little.

Later in the afternoon I made a trip to the Christian bookstore to find the girls a book about death -- or something anyway. It turned out to be a small, cute book about heaven. While there, two women who know the family asked to pray for me and for the family and we stood in the middle of this store holding hands in a circle and I remember thinking how beautiful and eloquent were the lady's words as she prayed. I remember thinking how fervently I wished I could speak that easily, yet never do.

I thought, "what if a miracle happens right now and suddenly I begin to believe in all the things I was taught as a child, began to believe as most people around me do?" I imagined warm yellow light flooding down on me. Is that what it would be like? Would I have the courage to suddenly believe if there were a sign like that? Probably it would just freak me out.

Instead I just tried to focus and allow the words to be what they were -- kind words and wishes for me. Afterward, I felt tired and have felt tired since. Chronic, crushing, powerful fatigue.

At the memorial there was one last tearing away of my composure as the children peered close to their father's picture surrounded by flowers. "Daddy," they signed. I begged desperately to myself not to sob out loud at that image which will stick with me for a long, long time... maybe forever.

But I understand now why people have those memorials -- despite the pain it was nice. Healing. The pain lessens by the day, but still I'm left with the tiredness, the regret, the guilt, the what-ifs. I know I'm not alone in that. We all have our simple wishes.

Please let each day get better and better.

Valentine's day is wonky

2006-02-24T18:36:00.001-06:00

Even though wendy is a weirdo, she is not the only one. :) I have always seen valentine's day as the "Fascist" corporate evil world trying to get us to buy stuff when there are better uses for that money, - at least Charity. I am worried about how easily my people buy into this commercialization. I thoroughly enjoyed the Daily Show's story on Valentine's day pointing out that Saint Valentine was beheaded . . . ever so poignant. How this historical figure has come to be a symbol to buy buy buy is interetsting. The good thing about valentine's day, however, is the chocolate goes on sale the next day. weeee . . . now I must eat salad for a month :(

Romantic Perils

2006-02-14T09:38:00.000-06:00

Am I the only weirdo who thinks Valentine's Day is a hideous holiday that oppresses men? Valentine's Day creeps me out.

I've never been a big fan of this holiday, but this year I was thinking, "well, maybe it would be fun to do something on Valentine's Day this year just for a change of pace." A couple of days later I saw an ad on television that reminded me why I hate it in the first place.

The ad was targeted at guys who might not know what to get their lady. It showed this poor guy getting grief over getting the wrong gift and all the stresses associated with letting down your woman by getting her a crummy gift. (The irony was that the commercial was for these sexy pajamas which I think is a stupid gift anyway since it's more about the man than the woman in the first place.)

To me, the whole day is just a big setup for the potential failure of men. Did you get the right thing? If you don't get the right thing then you don't really "KNOW" your woman. Or if you get her the right thing but her best girlfriend gets something better or more cool then there's that whole tragedy to deal with.

Probably I'm in a minority, but it just seems like a sadistic holiday to unleash on guys and I don't want any part of it.

My husband was really sweet this morning (and every year). He always asks, "Are we celebrating Valentine's Day this year?" I suppose he is being cautious in case I change my mind. I told him definitely not and asked if that was okay with him. He said it was just fine.

"You know I love you very much EVERY day of the year, right?"

I said, "Yep, and that's the perfect Valentine's Day gift for me!"

My Avatar Mood

2006-02-01T15:49:00.000-06:00

Well, I'm at work. But, my mind is on love! This pesky job thing is the pits.

Happy New Year!

2006-01-14T20:58:00.000-06:00

Well, the new year is two weeks old already and it doesn't feel "new" to me anymore. So much has happened!

Ginny is "Dr. Ginny" now and Shannon is "Mrs. Shannon"! I didn't have any big news for the end of the year. Drats.

Sometimes it's a blessing to have a quiet life! But quiet or noisy, Happy New Year darling girls, wherever you are tonight.