Purple State Blues

I love living in Colorado. Purple mountain majesty, healthy lifestyle, and all the rest. But right now, I envy my friends in California and Utah, and any other state that is rigidly blue or red.

Colorado is a purple state. A battleground state where pollsters can’t solidly predict who will win the electoral votes in the presidential election.

As a purple state, we are visited frequently by both candidates. It seems like one of them is here every few days. You’d think it would be exciting, and I have gone to a couple of political rallies. But after a while, it’s just a pain. I roll my eyes when I hear that Obama’s coming . . . again . . . and the freeway will shut down right about the time I have to drive to work. The phone rings all too often with an announcement that Romney’s doing a rally. At this point, I just want them all to stay home.

That’s not the worst of it though. That would be the TV, radio, and print ads. They have invaded every form of media like hideous tiny monsters poised to jump out at any minute. Research says that 97% of the ads are negative. However, I didn’t need research to tell me that. The ads are the worst kind of name calling and, frankly, lying.

Each candidate twists information to suit his agenda. (I say “his” because right now all the leading players are men. However, female politicians are just as vicious.) Information is taken out of context. Fact checking is left to the fact-checkers – I’m not sure the candidates care, as long as they twist the “facts” to their advantage. The spin is so dizzying, it gives me a headache.

If it were only media that was a problem, I’d try to ignore it. But the election ugliness filters into dinner parties, church meetings, and everyday conversation. There’s a certain tension during everyday interactions – will she or won’t she bring up her disdain for Romney . . . again? Will he start ranting again about Obama’s foreign policy? Will this pleasant chatter dissolve into anger, fist-pounding, or annoyance?

Of course blue and red staters have these issues too. This is a mean-spirited election. It seems like the ugliest campaign in my lifetime, or at least since I started paying attention. In my twenties I was apathetic, more concerned with dates and school than who would be the leader of the free world.  During my thirties, I was busy raising three young boys, too tired at the end of a day to study the headlines and read party platforms. But those years passed, and I took notice.

Those days seem so simple now. Sometimes I yearn for that blissful ignorance . . . or at least a red or blue state.    

Transitions

Somewhere in northern California, May 2012

Life is all about transitions. They come regularly - birthdays, milestones, and firsts. They never end, and they are not all positive. (The first time you’re dumped? The first death in a family? The first colonoscopy?) We can’t do much about those transitions, except welcome them with as much grace as possible. It’s important, though, to celebrate the joyous ones.

I just celebrated a big one - my last child, Bryce, graduated from college. All three sons now have college degrees. One graduated in physics, one in music, one in biochemistry. Two are headed for graduate school within the next few months; one will likely go in the next year. Those college diplomas are hard-earned and I'm proud of these sons for achieving that honor. On a practical level, it feels like Robert and I are getting a raise, with no more college fees, monthly payments, and rent bills to dig up.  

Bryce graduates from Adams State, May 2012 - Next step - Graduate school at University of Utah

With all this good news, though, a question nags at me. Is my job as a mother finished? Are my boys officially grown up? They are now responsible for paying their own bills, making their dentist appointments, and doing their taxes. So, what exactly is my role in their lives?

Truthfully, I’m not sure, though a few things come to mind: helping to plan weddings, providing shelter and meals during holidays, calming nerves of new parents after babies are born, perhaps taking a grandchild for a weekend while tired parents get away. I like to think they’ll still travel with me and talk frequently.

But I don’t know. It’s a new era. We’ve never had an empty nest – two days after Bryce, son #3, moved out, my mother moved in. But this feels close to it.

The nest feels a little emptier these days because of another transition. We came to that awful place that all pet owners eventually come to – the time to end the life of a beloved family pet. Pet owners know this day will come. Dogs and cats have shorter lifespans than people. Pretty simple. But it’s still tough.

It was tougher than I thought it would be. It was clearly the right thing to do. Av, our Samoyed-Golden mix, was 16 years old. That’s an old, old dog. It was the only decision we could make, and in fact, it seemed cruel to continue to prolong his life. So, why when I walked up to the counter at the pound, did I choke up when I tried to say, “We’re here for an appointment to have the dog euthanized.”

Part of it was that I’d miss this loyal, gentle dog who snoozed by my feet as I wrote and welcomed everybody into our home with a wagging tail and smiling expression (yes, really). Perhaps a bigger part was that the dog’s passing was a further signal of the end of an era.

We got this dog for Bryce’s ninth birthday. Bryce was starting to read Where the Red Fern Grows for the third time.  He’d been begging for a dog for months. It was time.

Just as it was time to let him go . . . a few days after Bryce’s graduation from college.  

Transitions come and go, and we deal with them one by one. We celebrated this last graduation with a family trip. We went to Los Angeles, then drove up the California coast to San Francisco, where we stuffed ourselves with chowder and sourdough bread while breathing in the briny sea air. For me, travel is perhaps the best way to celebrate . . . well, pretty much anything. So this was a natural.

San Francisco, with Alcatraz in the background, May 2012

I’m not sure what the next transition will be, whether it will be thrilling or sad, whether it will be a major shift or a tiny change. I’ll wait and see . . . and hope for the best.

Ireland

Ireland, sir, for good or evil, is like no other place under heaven, and no man can touch its sod or breathe its air without becoming better or worse.
- George Bernard Shaw

I have always wanted to go to Ireland. When I was about eight, I read a book that was set in Ireland and that started it. The desire was fed when people asked me through the years whether I'm Irish because of my red hair. Irish music resonated with me because it was similar to fiddle music I heard every summer when I listened to my grandmother accompany old-time fiddlers in Weiser, Idaho. As a young adult, the tales of troubles captured my imagination. Whatever the reason, I always yearned to see Ireland for myself.

I've just gotten back from a trip to Ireland. It was everything I expected, and more.

I went to Ireland with my sister, Bonnie, and my friend, Melody. A chick trip. Chick trips have their own easy-going charm, and this one was no exception.

We meandered through picturesque villages, stopping often to take photos of sherbert-colored houses and pubs that had fallen off the pages of a tour book. The musical names of the towns charmed us - Dingle, Tralee, Ballybunnion, Listowel, Shannon, Carrickfergus, Lahinch, - and we wondered what they meant. For the record, Bally means town; Carrick means stone; Innis or Inch means "water meadow," Lis means earthen fort, Shannon means "old."

The landscape was exactly what I expected - Technicolor-green meadows. Spring-green hills that rolled on forever. Even mossy-green cliffs! The forty-two shades of green an Irishman mentioned to us are real, although I could have sworn there were at least 100 shades.

The seascapes were equally stunning. Irish Seas rage in a wild, untamed way, with choppy waves, rocky shoals, and rugged peninsulas that jut out in an audacious dare to the sea. We discovered the power of the sea when we rocked and rolled in a boat to the Aran Islands. I couldn't help thinking of the many fishermen that sea has claimed through the centuries.

It was wonderful to take in the vistas, but we managed to fit in some shopping too. We're girls, and shopping is a particular pleasure of a girl trip. No one ever minded popping into another store, even if we'd already hit 10 that day. We compared the cuteness factor of fuzzy sheep figurines and wooden black and white cows, set our sights on celtic-inspired earrings and claddagh rings. Inspired by chilly weather and daily rain, we lingered over bright, striped socks knit by hand from Donegal yarn, nubby scarves, and lush sweaters. Oh, the sweaters! Scratchy wools with thick-knit cables in traditional ivory; butter-soft yarns in aubergine, sea-blue, and terracotta, along with bright shades of pink and coral that seemed out of place in a land dominated by hues of shamrocks, fern, and moss.

Much as we loved the shopping, we loved the food even better. We lingered over meals, delighting in creamy chowders with seafood fresh from the sea and discovering new pleasures like banoffee pie. It's a delicious creation of caramelized sweetened condensed milk, bananas, and whipped cream on a cookie crust. One bite in a dusty little cafe in Rathkeale (meaning: "Caola's Ring Fort") and our new quest was to find it at other restaurants. It wasn't all good news though. Blood pudding - a sausage made from pig's blood - was served every morning. There's no way to sugar-coat it - to our American tastes, it was repulsive.

We did make it out of restaurants enough to hear a little music. We clapped our hands and danced to Irish music and walked through streets where the twang of fiddles and the thump of the bodhran filled our ears. Music was everywhere. One day while wandering the streets of the tiny town of Doolin, an Irish jig wafted through the village. I assumed it was a recording, then we noticed an elderly gentleman sitting in a yard playing an accordian. He played without music (as did all the musicians I saw); the music seemed as natural to him as the sea air he breathed.

Most of all, I found the people of Ireland to be warm and welcoming. I adored the B&B women and their brisk efficiency while offering that vile black pudding every morning. I laughed with people celebrating a marriage at the pub, while admiring their skill at Irish dancing. I welcomed the driving skills of a lovely man who shepherded us through the twists and curves of the Dingle Peninsula, pointing out ancient burial mounds, Ogham stones, early dome-shaped Christian churches, as well as pottery shops and sheep pathways. I appreciated the charm (and the soda bread) from a baker on the Aran Islands who'd moved from New Jersey and made this isolated spot her home. I liked the cute man in a sweater shop in Dingle who told me to hug him to see if he really was the same size of my husband. I loved hearing the Irish broque, and in some places, the Irish language. The lilt still fills my ears.

This trip fulfilled a childhood desire to Ireland. But, as travel usually does, it has merely whetted my appetite. Someday I hope to return to Ireland and decide if there really are 42 shades of green, or more like 100.

Exceptional Young Men

I never thought my adult children would live with me for more than a few months, or perhaps a summer home between semesters. But right now, two live with me. All the time. Indefinitely.

Ethan, my musician son, has gone back to school after realizing he wanted to make consistent money, or needed a better job to earn money to go back to graduate school, and this included a better job. Devon has just graduated from college and is now looking for a job.

There are pros and cons to having them here. I get annoyed when I go to take a bath, and dirty towels have been haphazardly tossed on the floor and the tub is soap-scummy. I worry more about them than I do when they're not here. But in truth, I enjoy having them here. I like taking walks with them and tossing around ideas about religion and politics and relationships. I like asking them to cook dinner - and they do it. I like hugging them and talking in silly voices and sharing a thousand family jokes with them.

They're also helpful. They walk the dog and do the dishes. They fix the computer. They run to the store for mushrooms or milk.

They also help out with Mom. My octogenarian mother lives with me. Her health is slowly, miserably failing her. My calendar includes lots of doctor visits for her. Lots of procedures and lab tests. She is at that stage of life where one's social life becomes medical providers and hospital rooms.

Ethan and Devon are good to their grandmother. My sister recently told me they are "exceptional young men" because they don't complain about helping to take care of her. At first I agreed, secretly proud to have raised "exceptional young men."

The more I thought about it, I decided there's something wrong when it's exceptional to help someone without complaining. Shouldn't that be the norm?

Of course, it isn't. It's hard to be helpful and kind. It's hard to do it cheerfully and without at least a little resentment, even if it's hidden away where nobody sees.

If my sons are resentful, they hide it well. They have never complained when asked to take Grandma the doctor or push her wheelchair or tidy up her house. (And this includes the son, Bryce, who does not live with me.) Never. For this I am grateful. So maybe I won't complain so much about the towels littering the bathroom floor.

Unbroken

The first book I'm reading this year is Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. What a read!

I would have liked this book in any event. It's written clearly (pure heaven for a teacher of writing) and the story is jaw-droppingly good. But this book is more than just a good read. I feel like I'm learning about my dad.

Unbroken tells the story of a man's experience in a Japanese POW camp during World War II. My dad spent almost four years in a Japanese POW camp.

He never talked much about it, and I never gave it much thought. I figured everyone's dad had been a POW during the war, whether it was World War II or perhaps Korea. As a young girl, war was a fact of life, and not something I thought about much. I was far more focused on sparkly, pink nail polish, the possibility of breasts and boyfriends, and the dizzying social network that was junior high and high school.

My dad was the guy who went to the office everyday, occasionally bringing home little memo pads that said: "From the desk of Oscar Ray." He was the guy who read thick history books, laughed hysterically at I Love Lucy, and dozed off every Sunday during church. Ordinary dad things.

It never occurred to me that he'd had an extraordinary experience during World War II. But he did. Unbroken has made me understand what he went through, how horrifying it was, and what a survivor he was.

He's been gone now for many years, and I regret that I never talked to him about his experiences as a POW. I wish I'd interviewed him and written about those years. Toward the end of his life, he opened up more about the prison camp, and even went back to Wake Island for a reunion of survivors. I'm sure he would have liked to talk to me about it, perhaps to record his impressions for posterity.

Regrets don't change anything and they're not terribly helpful. But it's nice to have a glimmer of understanding about this experience that shaped my dad, and know why he's part of what's called the greatest generation.

Lemons and Lemonade

When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade.

It's one of the best cliches. Trite? Of course. An eye-roller when someone says it during a talk in church? Definitely. Wise? Absolutely.

I believe in making lemons out of lemonade. The therapists call it cognitive restructuring. I call it living life in a way so you don't want to bang your head against the wall.

Insomnia

It's almost 5:00 a.m. I've been awake since 3:00. A.M.

I hate insomnia. Why is it that at 3:00 in the morning I can't stop thinking about bills and taxes? Why is the witching hour of 3:00 the time my sons' lives and choices niggle at me? Why is 3:00 a.m. the time to worry about work, make dieting plans, and schedule my week?

I know all the typical answers. I'm married to someone who specializes in sleep, for heaven sake. I know the textbook explanations and answers. I've written articles on sleep, and two major book proposals. But at 3:00 a.m. the easy, tidy answers don't matter. The dark folds around me, while thoughts of broccoli, bills, and backaches scamper around my brain like unwanted nocturnal predators.

Fortunately, I don't have insomnia every night. It's just an occasional, irritating visitor, like an aunt with bad breath. I sympathize with people who fear going to bed every night, knowing they'll be awake at 3:00 to greet their own nasty aunt. Facing the old bitty a few times a month is bad enough.

But, enough for now. It's time to get up!