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Doris and Morgan

| halfnutswilltravel

In 2012, our teenagers, realizing they’d forgotten to get me a birthday present, made a rather last minute dash to the store looking for something.  Anything.  They returned home with a piñata stuffed full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  I emptied her body cavity of goodies and looked long and hard at her face.  “What is your name, lady?”

This magnificent creature used her telepathic powers to tell me her name was Doris.

A couple of months later, under almost exactly the same circumstances, Mike was presented with a piñata of pastel hues bearing Hershey’s Miniatures.  Mike doesn’t possess piñata telepathy, so I translated for him and everyone else that the name was Morgan.  Gender was never discussed.   It was clear Morgan and Doris loved each other very much and who are we to question?

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Doris (L) and Morgan (R)

A couple of weeks later, they attended our wedding with us.  That’s where this photo was taken.  They came to a few of our anniversary parties, too, but for years they watched over our family from their perch high atop my china cabinet .  On occasion, we’d look to one of them to officiate heated dinner conversations.  Being forced to talk to a Papier-mâché donkey is a great way to diffuse sibling squabbles.  It works on religious and political debates, too.

A few years ago they were joined by a child piñata, but they were secretive about its name.  One day, who knows when, the child piñata just vanished.  Morgan and Doris never seemed particularly alarmed about it, so we chalked it up to a cultural difference and didn’t worry about it, either.

Since that time, two of our children have finished college.  Two more have gone away to college, and only two of them are left at home.  Suddenly there were smaller and fewer family dinners for Morgan and Doris to oversee.

During the dual floods of 2015 Morgan and Doris took direct hits as the water poured out of our kitchen ceiling.  With plenty of sunshine therapy, they healed good as new – if not a tad bit faded.

In November of this year I relocated Morgan and Doris to our newly (almost) refinished basement.  I thought they’d like the change of scenery, and God knows that room needed a splash of color!  I made plans to hang a shelf up high for them.  Until I could get around to it, they would live on the floor.  Dino, Madi’s new doggy was excited to see the grey piñatas (dogs are colorblind, right?) just about his size when they came home for the Thanksgiving holiday.  He playfully pounced over to greet them.  Cautiously, he sniffed Doris first.  The whole family sucked in our breaths and watched – ready to rescue a piñata if necessary.  When Doris proved too boring, Dino moved on to sniff Morgan, who was clearly more interesting!  After thoroughly sniffing every inch of Morgan, Dino parallel parked himself up along side, and cocked his leg, completely drenching the starboard side of Morgan.

The injury proved too great.  Doris was given a chance to say good bye, and Morgan’s piss-soaked body was given a proper burial service.  For a piñata.  When Morgan’s name is mentioned, we now pause for a moment of reflective silence.

I finally got around to hanging the shelf where I intended Doris to live, but I placed it too high and Doris did not fit without bending her ears.  Forced to live on an end table, she just looked lonely and miserable.  The new home was too small for her, really, and sometimes she’d get knocked to the floor by a wayward guitar.  I knew I needed to find another solution for Doris, but I assumed I’d just end up hanging another shelf for her to adorn.

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Doris, this morning.

But then this morning I had the opportunity to go hang out with some refugees for a birthday party.  I didn’t really have any more details than that.  Sue said party and I said, “Yes, ma’am.”  Age and size of the refugees for whom we were throwing a party was irrelevant, she told me.  They just wanted “birthday things.”  If that doesn’t mean presents, I’m at a loss.  But then, I thought about Doris.  There was never any thought that I shouldn’t do it.

We loaded her with candy and took her in to the refugee birthday party.  What a truly…well, weird experience.

When the State Department sends however many refugees from wherever they’ve allowed them to come to the United States, these local offices must house them, feed them, and provide them with some support.  From ESL, to cultural, to job training, these people must attend classes every day until they are ready to assimilate into their new American Lives.

On this day we entered a room where between twenty and twenty-five recently arrived refugees were attending only their second day of class!  I believe all of them were from countries in east Africa.  All were adults, except for two young girls.  Sisters.  It was explained that they had no volunteers today to watch the children, so they came into the classes with their parents.

Today they were learning about birthday parties.  Sue brought the cupcakes and balloons and decorations.  Someone else made a pumpkin cake.  I had a metric crap ton of candy that didn’t fit and one very excited piñata!  I think she saw the little girls.

The adults were busy playing a creative form of musical chairs that incorporated birthday-related words like, “friends,” “presents,” and “birthday cake.”  And all of them seemed to genuinely be having a wonderful time!  One man was in an Arsenal jacket and I wondered if that was a personal item, one of the few treasures he brought with him.  Or was it a donated item that had been collected by kind-hearted people who would never meet him, but wanted to do something – anything – to make a stranger a little more comfortable.  Warm.

But let’s take a moment to think about this scenario.  These people have just come from some unimaginable hardship; violence, famine, natural disaster.  They are in this shiny, new country and, presumably, learning the important things they will need to know to start a life here.  Just how much ground did they cover on the first day that by the second they have already worked their way down the list of important cultural events to birthday parties?  I wonder if too much emphasis was placed on birthday hats today.   Imagine you’re sitting in a class, completely lost because you speak not a lick of English, and you are repeating a series of sounds that are said to you.  You don’t know what they mean – at least not in any context.  You are shown how to strap the paper horn to your head and repeat the sound, “birthday hat.”

Did these people ride the bus back to their homes tonight on the lookout for someone else wearing a paper horn?  Were they hoping to use their new word?

“Birthday hat.”

“Why yes, it is!  Thank you for noticing.”

“Birthday hat.”

“You already said that.”

<Polite smile>

It is my nature to worry that because I did not witness the beginning of the class, maybe some of our new community members might not have grasped that we were even talking about birthdays.   How do you communicate the idea of a birthday, anyway?

Soon, the impracticality of using a piñata in its intended way became obvious.  We couldn’t hang her from a drop-in ceiling, and they do require an awful strong beating.  The room was cramped as it was, and I hadn’t remembered to bring the whacking stick.

In the back of the room, the two little girls continued playing.  Sue walked Doris to them and held her upside down, high in the air, letting candy rain down in front of the squealing girls.  Back on the ground, Doris received gentle petting from the four year old while the younger sister sat on her back and tried to ride her.

I can’t show you the picture of this because we were asked not to post any photos of the refugees to the internet.  Also, I’d feel really uncomfortable telling you much about this family, not that I know very much at all.

What I can tell you is that their parents each come from a different, war torn country -one of which I’m willing to bet most of you have never even heard of.  But that’s ok.  I bet last month they’d never heard of North Carolina, either.  And now they are here with the promise of a new and better life.  And as cynical as I am about the near future of this country, I cannot help but feel hopeful that they will find more than they could have ever dreamed here.

If they get to stay.
If they aren’t forced onto a registry.
If they aren’t harassed by their new neighbors.
Too many heartbreaking possibilities are there, in the back of my mind.

But today two little girls got to take home a new friend – possibly confusing them for the rest of their lives about what you’re actually supposed to do with a piñata (and my God!  I’m suddenly terrified for the day they learn the truth!) – and Doris found a new family to love.

Day 2 

| halfnutswilltravel

Betsy Devos supports prayer in schools.
No word exactly what that means.  Christian only prayer? Forced prayer time?  The ability that already exists in our schools to pray in a non-disruptive manner?

Despite her display of gross inadequacy for the position, she will be confirmed for secretary of education.  It is foretold.   Probably one of the seven signs, or whatever.  I will accept that and agree to work with, not against.

I begin with my multi-beneficial proposal.

Congress shall create a Department of Grizzly Abatement (GAD, on Nasdaq – because all

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Grizzly Prayer

offices will now be publicly traded).  Each school will be assigned one specially trained prayer officer – except in Wyoming, they can have two – to pray away the grizzly bears.

On occasion, the Grizzly Abatement Officers may be called upon to neutralize other disruptions, like interminable pep rallys or ironically named talent shows.  They will, however, remain uninvolved in cases of teacher sexual abuse or campus violence.

Between officers and training personnel, roughly half a million jobs will be created, making America Great (and grizzly violence free) Again (still).  No oversight positions will be created.  Oversight is for vaginas, not school personnel.

When life hands you persimmons, share maybe?

| halfnutswilltravel

20170109_171854.jpgI fumbled my mom’s old recipe box on the night before Thanksgiving. A hundred recipes fanned out on the kitchen floor and the box landed in two pieces.  I ferreted out the pineapple casserole I was looking for, and shoved everything back in the box as best it would go, telling myself that I’d sort through it in the next couple of days, but knowing that was a lie.

Facing my third ice-bound day, this morning seemed like a good time to put recipes back in order. I settled in with my hot tea (Numi – Monkey King, if you must know), and got to work sorting the age yellowed, typed index cards and hand written, notebook paper recipes back to their proper section.

And then my phone rang. It was Donna, the friendly taxidermist calling me back. We had a lively discussion about pets we have loved and agreed that her daughter, Nora is a gem. When we got around to the business of why I’d left her a message – Woody – she was very tender in asking me the questions a taxidermist needs answered concerning a possible mount. I tried to let her know these discussions don’t bother me. When he’s gone I will miss him and grieve him terribly, but I can handle matters of his body with complete detachment. I told her I’ve already made arrangements for myself and stopped short of telling her I did the same for my mother just five years ago.

Five years ago, today.

She passed that morning before I could get back in to hospice to visit. When we left the night before, I think we all knew it was the last time. She talked about how heavy her ham was and I told her to put it down.

The thought of that, on the phone with Ms. Donna, kind of took my breath away. When we hung up, I returned to my recipe sorting, thinking that maybe I’d find a nice ham recipe to make for dinner tonight in her memory.  And maybe I’d make the cherry chocolate cake my dad loved, too; in another two weeks he’ll have been gone 10 whole years.

When the jellies and breads and pickles and puddings were all tucked away in orderly fashion behind their tabbed labels, I noticed there wasn’t a single ham recipe.  In fact, except for a magazine clipping of how to saute a chicken and what to do with it once you have, the whole meat section of her box was empty.  I will attribute this to the thirty or so cook books I confiscated when my father passed away.  Meat was his favorite genre and  I’m guessing he didn’t give her much opportunity to collect any of her own recipes in that medium.

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Don’t get all excited about that scotch chocolate cake recipe in the background like I did – it contains no actual scotch.

I ran across eight recipes for persimmons; bread, cake, cookies, pickled, pie, and three puddings.  She took the time to type or tape each of these recipes onto index cards, I’m guessing, in the early 70’s.  The paper has a scent I recognize from my childhood.  But here’s my question – Did persimmons go extinct?  I’ve never seen one and I can say with certainty that the stains on these recipes were not made during my lifetime.

If you know what and where a persimmon is, maybe you can send me one (a few).  In return, I’ll share this recipe with you.


Basically, Election Night

| halfnutswilltravel

​We got all excited about the chance of floofy flakes.  Up to ten inches, they said. 

We bought the prediction-  then we bought all the bread, milk, and rock salt.  We made soup and stew and filled our Netflix queues with four days of distractions. 

We ignored the nagging little voice that tried to squelch our excitement, reminding us that we don’t get that kind of winter here.  We get days and days of crunchy rain and power outages,  not sledding and snow man building.

Then The Weather Channel, which watches over us from their climate controlled bubble atop a hillside in Columbus Georgia sent us their ambassador of weather anomalies, Jim Cantore.  And our inner skeptics gave way to the child-like excitement for snowcréme – for which we also bought the supplies.

At three o’clock, it began to rain.  By 7:30, we had sleet.  We fell asleep telling ourselves what a nice base of ice we were building on which our ten inches of pure white joy would be awaiting for us to wake up and begin sculpting.

What The Weather Channel and our local broadcasters knew, but did not tell us – due to wishful thinking, or collusion with the sled manufacturers, we’ll never know – is that a layer of lofty, warm air was pushing through our upper atmosphere.  Our snow was melting into rain above our heads and then turning to ice before it reached our rooftops.  We hadn’t a snowball’s chance in, well, Raleigh of accumulating ten inches of snow.  Any snow, for that matter.

But we wanted it so bad!  The overwhelming majority was excited.  If we’ve got to say goodbye to warmth and sunshine, bring on the snow!! Instead, the tiny, icy hands of winter grabbed us right where it hurt – in the hopes.

Those who stocked up on liquor are going to fare much better than the rest.  Gone are the French toast and snowcréme – we’re pouring White Russians down our throats now.

There Are No Glass Ceilings

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It is possible women have been lied to all along;  there is no such thing as a glass ceiling.

In the time since my grandmother’s  birth in 1906, women were headbutting some force, that is for certain.  We were allowed into the military, and shortly after, granted voting privileges.  We were allowed to earn our own living, and we might yet one day be guaranteed equal pay to do so.  We have fought – and continue to fight for autonomy over our own bodies.  And in my life time, we have been allowed to open bank accounts and lines of credit without a man co-signing our debts and co-owning our assets.

Javits Center in NYC – future home to one of many monuments bearing the image of our first female president.

Don’t tell me the ceiling is glass.  It would have shattered years ago under the swell of women rising.  It is granite and the first head to break through was never going to do it with lipstick straight and every hair in place.  This is hard, dusty labor.

Early in the election cycle – when we were all still allowed to hope for better than what we’ve already had, I wanted a different kind of President.  My chief complaint about Hillary was and still is that she is no different than any of the seven men who’ve occupied the oval office in my lifetime , or really, the 19 since my grandmother was born.  Her scandals are no more egregious than Nixon’s, Carter’s or Reagan’s – to name a few.  But her experience is greater than Coolidge, Hoover, FDR, JFK, GW Bush, or Obama – to name but a few more.  I understand the philosophical difference of political opinion where Hillary Rodham Clinton is concerned, but I reject the fallacy that she is too corrupt and not experienced.  All things being equal, scandal and experience would remain ignored in a male candidate.  One need only look to her opponent’s own active investigations, trials, business failures, and lack of even the most basic civic knowledge for proof.

I stand by what I’ve taught my sons and daughters:  gender is no reason to vote for a candidate.  But on Wednesday, it is why we will be celebrating.

Thanksgiving vs. Thanksgetting

| halfnutswilltravel

Maybe this year, instead of distilling this beautiful life into shooters of thankfulness for daily Facebook consumption, what if we actually share our gratitude, not just our descriptions and defense of it?

Maybe we can honor the people and situations in our lives in a way that brings no recognition to ourselves.  There is no harm in receiving a pat on the back or an “atta girl!” for recognizing that we have so much to be thankful for – but does the search of those things not tarnish the sincerity of our thanks?

Does my friend in Alberta appreciate  knowing how much I appreciate my barista in Raleigh?  Can my former co-worker in Iowa feel the blessing of my love for family, near and far?  I suspect that it is only I, the common denominator – who benefits from the daily chore of social media displays.

Every person I know wakes up each morning and stares down one demon or another.  And sometimes, we all blink.  But what if, starting now, we also face everything that is good and is light?  Let’s  look the person or situation squarely in the eye and say, “I see you, and I thank you.”  And then, we stay still without squirming long enough to give back – whatever it is we have to give.  An ear, a cup of tea, lunch, or a lifetime of companionship.

I’m betting that in the absence of recognition or praise for merely stating our gratitude, we will find the real meaning of gratitude.  And  I’m betting we all have people who will be thankful we did.

Odd Bird

| halfnutswilltravel

Here’s an exercise for people over the age of…let’s see…Thirty.  Thirty is good.  It could take a few minutes, but it will either be delightful or educational.

Get comfortable with your favorite beverage.  I’ve got my coconut chai latte.  I’ll wait for you to get yours.

Now close your eyes (but not until you’ve read all the way through), and imagine your fourteen year old self.  Don’t imagine you, like you are right now, today, with every interesting thing that’s ever happened to you under your belt.  Imagine the real 14 year old you – the one with zits or braces, or skinny arms and legs.  Parents that just don’t understand, hormones like a mother fu…nevermind.  I’m keeping this one clean.  Fourteen.  Remember fourteen.

Now imagine the most embarrassing thing that somebody revealed about you to the entire class.  Maybe they made up a lie about you and spread around the school.  It happened to every one of us.  Can you remember what it was?  Some of you won’t be able to because it is miraculous what your brain can forget when you don’t spend every single day of the last twenty five years thinking about it.  That’s ok.  Think about what would have embarrassed you to the point that you wanted to quit school, or pretend to be sick for two weeks, or maybe even kill yourself.  Yes.  I’m talking that serious.  Imagine somebody’s attempt to cause you  that much shame, and what your ability to handle that would have been at the age of fourteen – again, without the knowledge you have right now.

Next, imagine you are you now.  This should be the easy part.  For some, that will take a minute.  Again, I’ll wait.

You are 30, or 42, or 56.  You might even be in your 80s.  All of your childhood pals and classmates are also their ages now, except for the ones that have passed.  They’re still gone – and they deserve a moment of silence.  Again, I’ll wait.  I’ll bow my head with you.

Now, someone you have not seen since you were that fourteen year old, insecure, unknowing, inexperienced self has just told your whole class that deeply embarrassing secret or lie.

Just now.

Not back then.

Today.

How do you react?

Are you amused?  You’d forgotten that!  Do you call your closest friends who missed the announcement and say, “Oh my God, you won’t believe this stupid thing I did when I was fourteen!”  And then proceed to tell them with no shame and have a good chuckle?  Do you end up in long conversation about how just like you that sounds?

Congratulations!  You survived some pretty horrific things for a kid your age.  You are a bird – an Odd Bird – who can laugh about that time you had your mom’s poop on your egg shell.
Or, are you deeply ashamed?  That secret – or that lie that everyone believed so it might as well have been true – it has haunted you through every college party, every job interview, every play group with your baby and her baby friend’s parents.  You have been scared to death of what all of these people would think of you if they knew that thing you did, or might as well have done when you were fourteen years old.  As the years have passed, the list of people you have to hide your embarrassing secret from has grown.

Are you mortified that someone has just brought it up all over again?  Are you squirming in your chair and did you just lose interest in that beverage you poured yourself?

Great news!  You can let that egg shell poop go!  Today is the day you get to put that down and become an Odd Bird, too.  If the loved ones in your life are just now finding out your deepest, darkest shame – they are going to be so relieved to find out you aren’t suffering by holding on to it anymore.  Believe me, please – nobody else, since you were fourteen years old has been thinking about it, too.

Except, maybe, the person who brought it up again, 16, or 28, or 34, or 60 years later.  Resist the urge to question the motives of that person.  They aren’t your cross to bear.  You are and Odd Bird now, too.  You can fly.

And if you are fourteen and reading this, sweetheart, I know you feel hurt, betrayed, embarrassed, and maybe even worthless.  But I primise you, you are not.  Those icky feelings you have now are carving texture into an otherwise flat existence.  They will be replaced with joy beyond measure, periods of boredom, different disappointments, and moments of tranquility.  And you will miss every bit of it if you do not let go of the pain of this moment.

And then when life is humming along smoothly, predictably, and happily – lean in, this is the important part – be willing to let go of that, too.  Sign up for the talent show, even if you’ve only ever sung into your hair brush.  Apply to that university none of your friends are attending.  Seek out the next challenging job.  Pick up a hobby that leaves scars.   Move to a place where you don’t know anyone and can’t pronounce the street names.  Break up with any person who cannot allow you to grow, change, and become.
Because all of  those things are adding dimensions to your very being.  Without them, you will be a flat checkerboard in a Rubix Cube world.

And one day you’re going to run into some of those classmates again.  You will have so many interesting things to tell each other.  You could spend years comparing all that  you’ve seen of this big, wide world.

Unless they never risked, never lost, never won, and never became.  Those are the people who  will recognize you as the Odd Bird that you are.  They won’t be the first person to ever tell you this in your life, but they will say it with more bitterness than you ever knew someone could feel towards the avian species.  They will resent you for not boarding up your windows and living  your whole life in the same box full of hurt they believed you deserved at fourteen.

That’s a different kind of bird.

And baby doll, let that go, too.

Flash Dark

| halfnutswilltravel

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In fourth grade I had an assignment I can no longer remember the specifics of, wherein I wrote about my imaginary invention – a Flash Dark.  It’s the exact opposite of a flash light and can be used to point a cone of darkness into any space.  My teacher told me that’s called a shadow, but I told her it was darker than that.  She gave me another exasperated look and a C minus. I didn’t yet have the physics background I would need to explain how to go about sucking all of the light out of a space. Decades later and I still don’t, but I’ve since met people that can do it merely by showing up.

My mother told me even if it were possible, it wouldn’t be a useful invention to anyone. Over the years she came to use Flash Dark as a code word for things I thought were a good idea, but that she just couldn’t see any use for. Curiously, she did not apply this to my marriage at 18 years old to a boy I’d just met, but right up until her death still referred to my second husband as a Flash Dark. She wasn’t wrong.

This morning I wonder if my mother noticed the influx of Dutch speaking souls up there in her heaven, and I wonder if it prompted her to take a peek at what’s going on down here on Earth.
If she did, she no doubt noticed the buildings all around the planet that have been lit in the colors of Belgium’s flag as a show of…something for the people of Brussels after their terror attack yesterday. Black, gold, and red lights. I don’t mean UV black lights that would undoubtedly leave us all scratching our heads as to how bodily fluids got all the way up there, everywhere. I mean to say they are literally shining a lack of light.
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And then I think about how devoid of any comfort or peace this gesture must be to those affected and I realize my Flash Dark has been brought to fruition.

Alive

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c9db983b835068660fcf859b38727152-1.jpgToday I kidnapped my girly friend as soon as she got off work.  I had to drive her over to this beautiful little piece of property my realtor found this morning.  I can’t tell you where it is because you might win the lottery before I do and buy it.  I can tell her where it is because if she has such great fortune she will let me sleep on her front porch every night so I still get to enjoy the view.  Plus, the spring bulbs are in bloom, the trees are just about to burst open, and I figured this was far better than taking her a bouquet of flowers to celebrate some great news she got yesterday!

We walked the land and portioned off pieces for the garden and the chickens, then decided the pair of alpaca can be free-range.  We fraternized with the neighbor’s faithful guard dog, who might be chow / golden retriever mix, and is probably a girl on account of the way she squatted to pee.  She told me what the house I’d build ought to look like, because she’s good at those things.  Then I drove her back home.

Just seconds before turning onto her road, something hit me; not in the literal sense,  but may as well have been.

“What day is this?” I asked in the middle of jabbering about other things.

“Thursday.”

“I mean the number!  What number is this?” I was getting excited.

She told me today is the tenth.

March tenth!

Ya’ll, this is the twelfth anniversary of when I was supposed to die any minute!
And then it was going to be maybe in a few weeks.  And then during child birth.  And then, because doctors are sure about these things, sometime within the next 5 years, for certain.

And for the first time ever, I forgot the anniversary was approaching!

A dozen years ago I was put on a medication regimen that not only stabilized my (low) heart function, but exacerbated my ADD.  I think both effects can be credited with saving my life as I’ve clearly been too distracted to die.

I’m frequently humbled by the tribe of heart sisters I’ve made all over the world – women who’ve had the same diagnosis and handled it with far more grace than I could ever muster.  And last year I wandered into the wilderness of Montana only to bump into a heart brother, too.  This disease has given me far more than it took, so here’s a little toast to all the wonderful people cardiomyopathy has brought into my life, and a spill to all of the superfluous and poisonous things it has removed.  And may next year I forget the date all together.