Vision quest

It was not that long ago that I used to make a point of buying a lottery ticket every time one of the jackpots got big.

Sure, I knew I wouldn't win, but I could still dream, right? I justified the expense, even on weeks and months where I was stressed about finding a way to eat until the next pay day, by saying it I got days worth of daydreaming about what I would do if I won. It cost less than a movie ticket. Thus, the money seemed worth it.

Sometimes the dreams were grand, like buying homes for myself and family members, paying for my daughter's dream college education, setting my parents up for the retirement they deserve, and taking care of family members the best way I could. And of course I dreamed about toys. Lots and lots of toys. Cars, computers, TVs, electronics, cameras and vacations.

But on some of those tough months, it was hard to dream that big when I was consumed merely with trying to figure out how I could get the clothes I needed for work. Sometimes it was enough just to dream of winning one of the smaller drawings and getting some relief from the oppressive, paralyzing fear brought on by debt.

But tonight I had a new realization. I am no longer dreaming of some magic, quick fix to my problem. I was no longer fantasizing about what it would be like IF I somehow had money. I was merely daydreaming about what I look forward to doing WHEN I no longer have to pay so much of my salary for debt. It is amazing to think about and realize what I could do with the money I already make available to use for what I need and want, instead of paying of stuff bought years ago on credit out of convenience, or trying to buy the affection of family members who I rarely got to see, or due to lack of planning for large purchases.

The ability to do that is still a fair distance off. But I am growing more confident that I will one day get there. I am beginning to see it in my mind. It's not a daydream, but the visualization of what can, and will, one day be.

Think pink

The C-word. Cancer. It seems to be everywhere lately.

Someone very dear to me had surgery this week for breast cancer and I'm all out of sorts over it. If it's messing with my head this much, I can't even imagine how see is dealing with the stress and mental anguish of being the patient, let along coping with the physical assault on her body in the name of trying to get well.

I also recently learned that another dear friend has been undergoing treatment for prostate cancer. And another friend's spouse has been dealing with the same disease.

This seems like a time when I should have something profound and meaningful to say. But I'm just numb. I don't know anything appropriate to say to them or those close to them. I want them to be better. To feel better. And selfishly I want to know that they will be around for a long, long time for myself and those I care about who care about them.

My thoughts are also inevitably drawn to the cancers survivors -- and those who lost their fights -- among friends, family, former colleagues. I am reminded of their strength and spirit and appreciation for life.

Get better my friends. Some great people have blazed the trail you now tread.

It's hard to fulfill unexpressed holiday wishes

So, is everyone ready for Christmas? I'm certainly not. I haven't even started my shopping. Fortunately, I only going to get gifts for immediate family this year. That's all that -- and probably more than -- I can afford.

I am not one of those people that's good at shopping for others. I need specific gift wish list ideas. If I have pre-approved options to choose from, I then feel a little more comfortable venturing off the list for some secondary gift of my own choosing, because at least I know I have something the recipient will like.

I sort of miss the days when my daughter was younger. There were distinct phases that provided gift ideas. There was a Disney princesses phase, a Barbie phase and a Harry Potter phase. There were years when all I needed were sizes and I could even feel comfortable and confident selecting clothes.

Now my daughter is 16. When we go clothes shopping now, my contribution is providing transportation and one -- or more -- credit cards.

I do know the stores she likes, or think I do, but knowing the fickle nature of teen tastes, maybe that has changed too. So, I supposed I could go the gift card route. While I love the practicality of that, it seems a tad impersonal for the person I most enjoy buying for doing things for.

I am far worse at buying things for my parents and brothers. I could chock it up to being out of the house for so many years, but I never knew what to get them when I lived with all of them either. And my dad is the hardest to shop for of all.

But buying gifts for my daughter, which has been so much fun over the years, has gotten me past the dread of gift buying/giving. I can, and sometimes do, actually enjoy gift buying sometimes. Of course, I find many more things that I think would be fun to receive as gift than things I'm sure will be good gifts for those I love. And my parents and I are so bad about admitting the things we want as gifts. When one of us ask, "So, what you do want for Christmas, the inevitable answer is always, "Oh, nothing." Or that other old chestnut, "I don't need anything."

But the thing with gifts, and a truly great gift (especially for adults) is not getting something you need, but getting something you want. We tend to buy ourselves the things we really need. What we don't tend to do is buy things we would like to have, if we had a little extra money to splurge on a little something for ourselves. That's a good gift. Why can't my parents (or me for that matter) provide a few hints at things that they would like?

The bad thing is, now my daughter is getting more coy when asked what she would like for Christmas. She used to be pretty good about putting a wish list together (and then providing me with a copy, which is pretty key to the whole success of the list). Apparently she inherited the "nothing" response gene, and it's kicked in at adolescence.

Poor kid, she inherited the freakiest things from my family. Fortunately, the looks she gets from her mother's side of the family.

So, I still need to get my shopping started, but I'm fairly confident my days of waiting until Christmas Eve to even start are behind me -- I think. We'll know for sure in the next few days.

Grief's hidden treasures

Friends,

Sorry I haven't been around for a couple of days. As you may glean from my last post, I've had some personal, family stuff to deal with the last couple of days.

Unfortunately, I'm not going to make it back to my grandmother's funeral. As I was starting to write that previous sentence, I was tempted to write that I "can't make it," but the truth of the matter is it came down to a choice and I have to own that. It was an agonizing choice, made in consultation with my parents and based on their advice and after talking to my uncle. But ultimately, the choice, and whatever personal, emotional consequences it brings, is mine.

I went back and forth so many times, checking prices and talking on phones and driving myself crazy. Wanting to do the right thing for my mom, the right thing by my family. I don't know what the right thing is, but I know I feel better finally knowing what I'm doing and no longer chasing my tail.

Life is hard. Sometimes life is sad. And for some of us, life goes on.

In the oddest of ways, I have been enjoying the grieving process. Not that I enjoy the sadness or the pain. But I am remembering a lot of great things about my grandmother and reliving a lot of happy times. I'm smiling with tears in my eyes. I'm allowing myself to grieve, whereas in the past, I have suppressed my grief, only to have it reemerge months or years later in a shocking flurry.

Something came to me last night shortly after I crawled into bed about my grandmother, something that shocked and delighted me. I remembered that my grandmother had a little electric organ sitting next to her front door. Usually it was difficult to get her to slow down long enough to sit down and play it. But when she did, it was a special treat. And I flashed on a memory of my grandmother, sitting at her organ and playing "Silent Night."

Maybe that's why "Silent Night" is my favorite Christmas song. It was the one song I longed to play as I began to develop meager piano/organ playing skills.

I had completely forgotten about that organ or my grandmother playing it. Something I now know about myself, and the fabric of who I am, that I didn't know was hidden behind that little corner of my mind.

It's been a pleasant journey of discovery, remembering my grandmother as the vibrant, vital woman you shape my live in ways I may never know or realize. It makes me glad that I can remember so many things about her from happier times and that my memories need not be dominated by seeing her in her final, cruel decline. I'm glad there are so many good things that I've remembered already and will welcome any more revelations that come.

Today, God cut the apron strings

My mom called this morning. My mom never calls. And she called me while I was at work no less. Usually, I figure if mom is calling there is news, generally bad news. But today I figured she was calling with details about a family trip we have scheduled for next week.

It wasn't about the trip. It was news -- sad news.

My grandmother -- her mother -- died this morning. In recent years my grandmother has spent time living with my uncle and aunt in Nevada and my parents in Eastern Oregon. When I lived in Southern California and grandma moved to Henderson, just outside of Las Vegas, I made a point of going to visit her there. She moved to Oregon about a year before I moved back to the state, and since I've been back I have tried to make a point of going home when I can to spend some time with her. I never knew when the next visit might be the last. But I knew our last visit earlier this month would likely be the last. And, sadly, it was.

Unfortunately, now I don't know if I will be able to make it back for her funeral. Timing and finances are conspiring against it. Mom isn't expecting my father, brothers or me to be there, but I really would like to be there. Not to say goodbye to my grandmother. I got to do that a few weeks ago, even if it wasn't a storybook farewell. But more than 30 years have spent far from my childhood home and family. These days, it seems the only time our far-flung family gets together is for someone's funeral. I haven't seen my mom's sister and her husband and most of my cousins on my mom's side of the family since my aunt's funeral 15-17 years ago. And I hold out a little home that I might get to see my uncle's oldest kids, who I have rarely seen since about second grade -- except for two funerals.

I guess as I get older, as my parents get older, I seek some stronger connection to family. Maybe it's because my daughter is getting older too. I hope that someday maybe she will want some stronger connection to my side of the family. I hope she will want to know more about where she comes from. But I realize now I don't have a good understanding of where I come from to even be able to answer those potential questions from her. Most of my knowledge and understanding of my family is filtered through the partially opaque veil of time and memories of issues seen through the flawed vision of a child.

It's times like these I wish I was a better writer. Better at describing my grandmother and the people close to me. I am much more practiced at telling other people's stories. I feel so inept at capturing the essence of the people close to me or even my feelings about them.

It was difficult to see my grandmother in recent years, leading a sedentary life, spending her hours in a glider-rocker in my parents living room. She was always so active and vibrant. It was virtually impossible to catch my grandmother standing or sitting still for long when I was a child.
She was always out tending to the chickens in the chicken coop -- feeding the chicks, gathering eggs. Although I never witnessed the act myself, I also heard her in later years talk about butchering the chickens herself too.

Grandma always kept a large garden -- corn, squash, watermelon, cucumbers, tomatoes, snap beans, peas. The garden was a source of produce during the summer months. My grandfather would seemingly eat cucumbers and watermelon and corn on the cob with every meal while the vegetables were in season. And from grandma's abundant harvest she would can her own veggies in a big, rattling, chattering, steaming canner that created a hell of a racket that could be heard all throughout my grandparent's little house. She worked magic with that canner, turning cucumbers into the best dill pickles on the planned. I never cared much for other home-canned vegetables, like canned tomatoes, or the sauerkraut. But I could never get enough of grandma's pickles. There was also a little adventure involved in trying to get the right pickle out of the jar. To this day, a bite of a good dill pickle reminds me of grandma and her kitchen, but even a good pickle isn't quite good enough.

But grandma's signature dish, at least to us grandkids, was her homemade noodles. We used to beg grandma to make noodles on virtually every visit or family gathering. If we were really good, and grandma had time, we would be rewarded with her special dish. One of my favorite things was to sneak into the kitchen and steal some of the raw noodles from grandma's cutting board. She would roll out dough to just the right thickness and cut the dough into thin strips with a large knife. I don't know what she put into the dough or the broth, but the noodles were sliced heaven. It's been many, many years since I had grandma's noodles. But my uncle now carries on the noodle-making tradition in the family. My grandmother was a good cook and my uncle inherited that from her. That's a gene my mother did not inherit.

I was looking through some family photos my grandmother gave me that had belonged to my aunt. The pictures are in a photo album that belonged to my aunt and grandma gave them to me after my aunt's funeral about 15 years ago. I realized as I was looking through the photos that I never saw my grandmother wear anything but a dress. In one of the photos in the album, my grandparents are standing outside with my mom's oldest sister and brother in-law and their oldest son. Grandma is wearing a white apron over her dress. That's how I remember my grandmother, in a dress that extended below her knee with an apron over it. She wore the apron in the kitchen. She would collect eggs from the chicken coop by holding the bottom of her apron up to make a basket to carry the day's layings in.

The chickens she kept used to scare me as a small boy. They would come after you and peck you in the pen, so I avoided going in there. That was the adult chickens. I used to love the chicks every spring. Grandma used to bring chicks into the house every spring. Perhaps that was to keep them warm, or perhaps it allow us grandkids to see them when we were visiting. Who knows how many hours were spent watching those little chick, giving them names, watching them interact and holding the fuzzy-feathered, chirping chicks in our hands. They were so cute, but the adult chickens were so ugly and mean. But I used to enjoy helping grandma gather the eggs out of the chicken coop. I remember when I was finally old enough to be sent out to the hen house to gather eggs all on my own.

Grandma was always an imposing presence. She was not an overtly affectionate person or a hugger, a trait my mom and I did inherit, and one I'm still trying to grow out of. Of course my father's family was much the same. It's something I attribute to the German-Midwest heritage. But she put her love and affection into caring for her family, growing and preparing hearty meals and spending untold hours in the garden, hen house and kitchen.

I hope somehow the stars align and I get an opportunity to share memories with family and friends, to learn the things I missed about her and her life before I was born, or after our family moved so far from grandma's house and the years before she became the small, frail woman with a failing memory.

A few years ago, before her memory started slipping, I used to ask her about the family to learn things I didn't know about our family. But in recent years, she was remembering things wrong. The answers to questions could not be relied upon to be true or accurate.

It was hard to see grandma in decline. The last time I saw her was extremely difficult. But today, on the day she left us, I choose to celebrate the simple, yet special, memories I have of better times. I am glad my daughter got to meet her. I wish she got to know her as the vibrant woman I remember. I'm not sure if my daughter will remember much about that visit, but I wanted her to know her other great-grandmother and I hope she got at least some glimpse of what made my grandmother great to me.

I miss you grandma.

Gifts from the family

The family has returned from their holiday festivities and my pet-sitting duties have ended. I've turned over the leashes and am now left alone in my apartment. I think I'm going to miss the cuddly company.

Perhaps I read too much into it, but it was almost as if the critters knew our time was short today. The cats kept close to me today, taking turns napping on my lap or next to me on the couch. Or maybe they were just cold and taking advantage of my body heat. I choose to think they were sensing something unseen, like the way animals are reported to sense earthquakes before they are felt by people.

That's the wonderful thing about pets. Humans imbue them with emotions and characteristics that we hope they are displaying. I'm going to miss my furry friends until out next visit, no matter how long or short it may be.

It was also good to see my daughter today too, and hear about some of the things happening in her life. The details of boys, school, family and the events of Thanksgiving I missed out on.

I also got a bit of "payment" for my pet sitting. My daughter's mom and her partner gave me an extra TV they had that they don't really use anymore, so now I have access again to television, just in time for NFL football on Sunday! So, I may not have warm furry bodies to cuddle up with, but at least I have a new electronic companion for company.

The gift of time with my family's pets, my family and the generosity of the family leaves me feeling very warm on a chilly night. The calendar may have said Thursday was Thanksgiving. But for me, today I have even more reasons to be thankful.

Looking for the good in goodbye

I got a call tonight from my mom. She and my dad are back home, with my uncle in tow. They got back from Nebraska today, where they took my grandmother. They got her checked out by a doctor who confirmed that my grandma is suffering from dementia. The doctor said it's not Alzheimer's disease. They also got her admitted to a nursing facility.

But before she moved into her new home, an amazing thing happened while they were all staying at my aunt's house. Mom said my grandmother, who has been virtually confined to a wheelchair for weeks now, was up and walking around with the aid of her walker. She even negotiated two small stairs with the help of my uncles and her walkers.

But that seeming rejuvenation aside, taking my grandmother back to the community that has been her home for so much of her live was obviously a difficult chore for all of them. It was a somber task, including a visit to a funeral home to make decisions and final arrangements for the inevitable end to this sad saga. I got some of the details by phone today. They left sometime yesterday, and between the three of them they drove straight through and arrived home today.

Mom was tired from the dramatic ordeal and the long drive. But she also returned confident that she and her siblings did the right thing for their mother, as difficult as it was. She is pleased that she is getting appropriate medical care.

If relief is audible, it was that I heard in her voice.

I am sad that I probably won't be seeing my grandmother again in this life, and our goodbye was not the sort I would have scripted for her, me or my family. But I am relieved that she finally got a doctor to pay attention to more than the your physical pains, pulse, blood pressure and bones. There is a stoic reassurance in the diagnosis and an offer of care and therapy. The medical professional think they can actually help her get better physically and emotionally before the unstoppable eventual decline.

No, this was not a good situation. This was not good for any of the people involved. But it seems better. Sometimes better just has to be enough.

Life is decidedly not fair

My mom often used to say it during those times I was complaining about the seeming inequities of life as perceived by my then childish mind and screaming that she wasn't being fair. "Life is not fair," she would say. I didn't understand what that meant then. I thought I learned what that meant in the years since. But I had no idea what that really meant until today.

A person should not have to outlive their mental faculties and physical capabilities. Children should not have to commit a parent to a nursing home against their will.

My parents and my uncle, who flew in from out of state, set out this morning to take my grandmother back to her former home state of Nebraska, to try to get her in to see her former doctors and to be closer to other family members and amid familiar surroundings for the final sad chapter of her life. They had to grudgingly admit that they are no longer able to care for their mother.

Hour to hour, minute to minute, she doesn't know who the people are that are around her, not even her own children. She sometimes masks the unfamiliarity by refusing to use people's names. She can be chatty and friendly, but the conversations are non-specific. She shows the cracks in the mental armor when asked specific questions or in other subtle ways.

Last night she was confused and scared, thinking that "her people" had dropped her off and hadn't come to take her home, even though we, her family, were gathered around her. She did not know who we were and it wasn't completely clear that she knew who she was.

This morning, she was lucid, and even chipper for a while. But when talk came of preparing to leave for their long journey, she got very upset and said she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay with her family. She knew she had been living there for years and said "This is my home."

She calmed down after a while and seemed downright chipper even. But when the time came for them to leave, she grew very agitated and upset.

"I don't want to go to Nebraska... This is my home... I want to stay with my family."

In turns my father and uncle tried to explain to her why they were doing what they were doing. They tried using reason to explain the unreasonable behavior she had been exhibiting. But she was beyond reason.

"You are killing me. You are killing me. Oh, no. Please, God no. ... God won't allow this to happen. He won't let you get away with this."

Amid the tears -- hers, theirs and our -- my dad and uncle pleaded with her to get into the wheelchair. She cried all the way to the car and once we got her into the car. I sat with her, my arm around her, while the final preparations were made, the last few items were placed in the car. It seemed such an empty gesture, but all I really could come up with to try to let her know that amid her pain and anguish that she was loved. I held things together until it was time for the final goodbyes.

As I got out of the van so my mom could slide in, I hugged my mother goodbye and held her as she sobbed. I told her it was going to be OK, though I had no conviction it would ever be OK again for any of us.

Grandma, I'm comin' home

It's only about a four-hour drive, but I have a feeling the next time I make it it's going to seem a whole lot longer.

This weekend I will probably be driving to my parent's house to say goodbye to my grandmother, a woman so important to my early life and who now I don't know nearly as well as I should. Worse yet, she usually doesn't know me at all when I do see her. At 93, her memory and her body are failing her. On one of my last visits my mom asked my grandmother if she had said hello to me and grandma said, "Oh, no one introduced us."

When I spend time with my grandmother, I will talk with her about whatever she wants to talk about. Her memories now aren't her own. The stories she tells are vivid and filled with drama, but they are no more based in fact than an elaborate work of fiction. The repetition of her tales gives the illusion they must be true, but the wiring of her brain has shorted out, connecting disparate facts in a mad jumble. She doesn't know where she is and often doesn't know who the people are she lives with, specifically her daughter -- my mother.

It's been very difficult on my mom to see her mother deteriorating and to be a stranger to her own mom.

In addition to the memory problems, there is pain that makes for sleepless nights for everyone in the house, particularly mom and grandma. The doctor recommended that my mom and her siblings consider putting their mother in a nursing home to provide a level of care they can no longer provide in the home. Grandma was in a nursing home several years ago but hated it, so my uncle moved her from Nebraska to his home in Nevada. She didn't like it there either. So my parents took her in. She isn't happy there either.

Her world has gotten very small. My old bedroom is now hers. With the aid of a walker, she would make the short trip from her bed to a glider rocker in the living room where she would spend her waking hours and take her meals. Then back to her room. Her view of the outside world is limited to a large picture window in the living room and a television stationed across a wide expanse of carpet. Since my last visit just two months ago, the walker is no longer enough to manage even that short trip and she needs the help of a wheelchair to make it.

But in spite of her limited mobility she's getting ready to make an extended trip. My parents are planning to take my grandmother back to Nebraska, perhaps as early as next week. So, I am going to make a little road trip myself of about 250 miles to see her while she is still close by.

I know that it's likely to be the last time I see her in this life. She may not know me, but I want to see her and spend a little time with her. I want to look for a few signs of the vital, robust larger-than-life figure I knew in my youth peaking out of the tiny, frail frame my grandmother now inhabits.

As a small child, a visit to grandma and grandpa's house was a Sunday ritual broken when my parents moved my brothers and me to Oregon shortly before my 8th birthday. Our family was divided, living on opposite ends of the Oregon Trail. Return trips to the Cornhusker State have been very few and far between. My last three visits to Nebraska were for funerals -- my mother's father, then her sister and most recently for one of my father's brothers.

I'm not looking forward to my next trip back there. I can't say I'm really looking forward to the trip to my parents' home either. But I would rather see my grandmother now, with what life she has left, than have our next meeting involve an even longer trip and her in a fancy box.

A couple of summer's ago I took my daughter to her first, and probably only, meeting with her great-grandmother. Much of my time with my daughter is spent with her mother's side of the family. But I wanted her to see a little more of my family. I wanted her to have an opportunity for some sort of memory with my grandmother and a bit more exposure to the other part of her heritage. I wish she would have got to know my grandparents, my grandmother and my late grandfather. But maybe that's because I wish I got to know them more and spend more time with them and with my father's parents, who both died when I was young.

So, my attempt to blog every day this month may come to a screeching halt this weekend. I may be on the road and not have an opportunity to post to the Fishwrap. I've enjoyed trying to get back into the writing groove again. But this weekend I will have something more pressing and important to do that will take priority.

Hang in there grandma, I'm coming home. I'll get there just as quick as I can. We'll both be home real soon.

Chill of an early fall

I looked at the date on my watch today and realized that September is almost over and it is now officially fall. This month has gone so fast. I was not ready for autumn's arrival, but the signs that it was coming have been apparent for a while now. Shorter, cooler days. Some trees are already changing color. There has been some rain.

Fall can be a beautiful season in Oregon, but here in the western part of the state it also means that the gray, rainy winter season is not far behind. And the gray days seem to go on forever once they set in.

It's been an interesting month. I have probably driven 2,000 miles so far this month in parts of Oregon and Washington. On one hand, it has been nice to see some places and people I have not seen in a long time and people and places I don't see often enough. But it's made me realize that I really haven't made the place I've lived the last couple of years my home. My ties to the Northwest are based too much on long ago or people too far away.

I feel like a wondering vine, with my roots in one place, but my tendrils stretch far away from that nourishing soil that sustains me. I need some roots where I am. I need some connection here.

I have always been the type of person that is slow to make friends, and am cautious about who I commit to as a friend, but when I do those friendships are deep, meaningful and important. I want more of those type of relationship here.

But I miss friends who are miles away. I miss them especially now, on the nights when there is a chill in the air and I crave warm arms wrapped around me, making me feel safe and warm and at home in my own skin.

Ignorance on display

Got a razor blade I can borrow?

I would never advocate vandalizing someone's personal property, but I just saw a sticker in the window of a car that makes be think it might be OK, just this once. All I'd need is a razor blaze to scrape off the sticker, but frankly I would much rather use a brick to take out the whole back window.

The sticker says: "Silly fag. Dicks are for chicks."

I know too many people who disagree with that statement and I take major exception to it. I have gay men and lesbian women in my circle of family and friends and I'm offended on their behalf.

I'm not proud of the fact that I've let far too many off-color comments uttered within earshot go unchallenged. However, I also don't believe that calling someone on their ignorance in public will lead to an epiphany that will lead them to discard their racial/cultural bigotry, gender bias or homophobia in a flash. It will take something bigger and more profound to challenge their misguided and long-held beliefs.

Maybe something like a brick through a window.

OK, that probably won't work either, but just the thought of it makes me feel better.

What kind of asshole dude would put such a sticker on his car window? Come to think of it, would a straight guy put a sticker about dicks on his car? Maybe it's a woman who is professing her affinity for that part of the male anatomy. That seems to make more sense.

I wonder if she's hot? And available?

Well, the sticker still bothers me. I won't ride in her car as long as that sticker is still on the window.

I guess we'll have to take my car.

Prom corsages, birthday candles and hazard lights

Something was definitely wrong. The sounds of crunching metal, squealing rubber and exploding plastic came from up ahead. The explicative uttered from the front seat was the next clue. Then there was a Dodge pickup sliding sideways into our lane of travel, complete with screeching tires and a wildly careening trailer behind it.

Oh crap, are we going to crash? Yes. No, maybe not. Oh, shit yes we are.

The distance between the sliding truck and our front bumper was closing fast. Then it was gone in a metal-bending jolt.

I immediately turned to my right to see if my daughter was injured.

"Are you OK? Are you hurt?"

"I'm OK."

All four of us in the car came out shaken and with a few muscle strains, but there was no blood or penetrating trauma. No broken bones, cuts or abrasions. Just frayed nerves.

In all there were four cars involved in the crash on a busy commercial street in southeast Portland. The car I was in was the furthest from the initial point of impact, but all four cars involved in the crash had to be towed from the scene. Remarkably, no one else suffered any obvious injuries either. But a trip home from Sunday lunch became much more of an adventure than any of us imagined it would be. We were winding down from a long week of family activities -- Mother's Day, a state golf tournament, a barbecue, a business trip, a high school prom, a surprise birthday party, time with extended family and a four-car crash that blocked three lanes of a four-lane city street.

It was quite a week and I can't quite do it justice here. The images still whirl in my mind in brief flashes. I'm having a difficult time finding the words to explain how the buzz of activity affected me. But I realized, that even after being involved in a car crash, even that difficult experience with my daughter was better than most other days spent alone without her.

I need to remind myself, when I have questions and doubts about whether I have made the right choices in my life the last few years that I am where I want to and need to be. Seeing my daughter experience milestones in life, being with her at times of celebration or stress, is worth some personal/professional disappointments. I can't be there every day, but I'm there a lot more days and spending time with her and the other people I love and who I know love me.

We aren't a traditional family. We don't fit a Norman Rockwell ideal. But we celebrate many of life's big and small moment's together. And when life comes crashing in, we are there to hold each other, hug each other and make sure we are all OK.

Walkin' in the sun

When the sun comes out and the mercury ventures into the "warm" range, the Willamette Valley can be a beautiful place. Today was one of those days. I also had an opportunity to spend the day outside, rather than sitting inside an office building all day as would ordinarily be the case on a Monday.

That's not to say I would want to work outside all the time. Most outdoor jobs involve far too much physical exertion for my tastes. I am more inclined to sit on my butt staring at a computer monitor where the biggest workout I get is making several trips to the water cooler each day. But sometimes it's good to get outdoors and work up a sweat.

Fortunately, I was hanging out with people I had no need or desire to impress, namely members of my family, so I could get as sweaty and sunburned as necessary without fear of embarrassment. OK, no more embarrassment than normal.

And, as perhaps a side benefit, there was a lot of walking in the sun today, which has left my body tired in that good way that only physical activity can do. So I'm hoping that will lead to a decent night's sleep. It may not be my first choice for a getting a workout, but the opportunities for a good sexual workout haven't existed since President Bush's first term. So, I'll take what I can get.

It's the small things

I was fortunate to spend part of the weekend with my daughter. I suppose she will always be my little girl, but the last signs of that little girl are slipping away and she has become a young woman. I still don't know how to be the father of a girl let alone the father of a young woman.

But she makes me so proud. And little things give me joy about being part of her life. Earlier in the week when we got together she was telling some about her recent prom date and her dress. Admittedly those are things I don't fully appreciate. Oh, sure I can appreciate how a woman looks in a dress, but I don't really understand the pride a young woman takes in something like her first prom dress. But I could appreciate the pride she expressed and the smile on her face as she told me about her evening.

I was also quite proud to learn that she wore the silver bracelet I got for her for her 16th birthday and the fact that she borrowed a matching necklace from an aunt to wear with it for her first prom. The fact that she wore that bracelet on a special occasion for her made me feel like I was part of that special night, and a little bit of me was there with her.

As an absentee parent, I've come to appreciate, even celebrate, the little things, those little moments that make be feel like a parent or at least a special person in her life.

It doesn't pay to be picky. I take what I can get. There was another little moment over the weekend that I latched onto, even though it was a bit, um, odd, at least it seems that why when I try to comprehend how to explain it.

One of those celebrity gossip shows, perhaps "Entertainment Tonight" was starting on TV and their were talking about a story and showing a video in which actor David Hasselhoff was drunk and being filmed by his 16-year-old daughter. As poor timing would have it, I picked that moment of our little family Cinco de Mayo celebration to venture into the kitchen for a cerveza. My daughter was in the kitchen, near the refrigerator, and opened up the fridge, of her own initiative, to grab a malt beverage. She said, loudly and with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Here's your beer DAD!"

Her mother said, "Don't do it, don't you dare do it." And I said to my daughter, "Great, can you videotape me too when I get drunk."

We all had a good laugh out of it, but truth be told I was downright giddy, and not due to the beer. But it was the first time, albeit under strange circumstances, that my daughter ever called me dad to my face. Another man has that moniker. Although I have heard her refer to me indirectly, to her friends, as her "real" dad. But not Dad. Normally, if she refers to me in a formal sense it is by my first name.

So, perhaps its not that moment when a child, first learning to speak, says "Dada" or "Papa" or "Papi" or some such thing somewhere around age 1. Fifteen years late is far, far better than never, even if said in jest. I'll take it and hold out some small hope that maybe there will be more in the future.

I'll save the other awkward parental moment from the weekend for another post.

Resurrection

At the risk of sounding completely manic, the weekend ended on a good note. I enjoyed spending time with my daughter and family, sharing good food and good company.

Good days can override a lot of not so good days. I have to remind myself that those days, though less frequent than I may like, are the days I am here for. Spending part of my daughter's birthday with her last week, spending holidays with her. Those are the days I came here for.

Something's missing

I've been reminiscing a lot lately. Obviously it was the trip to the old desert stomping grounds. That place, those people, have a profound effect on me.

I spent my 30s in the deserts of Southern California. In many ways, I came of age there. I learned and grew a lot professionally, achieve some successes and endured some setbacks. It was a bit of a mixed bag socially. I made some great friends, and strengthened some key friendships, but the dating life was disappointing, except for a couple of adventures and one romance spectacular in its emotional highs and lows.

I am not deluding myself. It was not all sunshine and roses. But there was a lot of sunshine and I love the sunshine.

Fortunately the sun was shining today and spring is in the air, at least for a few days. But I miss the friendships built over the California decade. I miss working in a big office filled with people and energy, excitement, enthusiasm and ideas. I miss nights spent dining out or talking under the stars.

I miss the me I was there. I miss the me I could see myself becoming.

Fortunately, I'll be spending Easter with my daughter and her family. I'll take unconditional love and acceptance where I can get it.

OK, maybe I made a play to buy a little of that love with my daughter's birthday present, an inscribed silver bracelet that came in a distinctive blue box. Better to be bankrupt than disappoint my one and only child on her Sweet 16!

Guilt: The gift that keeps on giving

My daughter has a birthday coming up. I'm feeling guilty. I haven't seen her in several weeks I'll have to go out of town the weekend of her birthday party. Fortunately, I will get back in town in time to at least see her for a little bit on her birthday, but it won't be during the big group celebration.

I've often missed her birthday, but for many years I was able to spend the week before her birthday with her. Her birthday generally follows spring break. When I lived out of state, I would try to schedule at least one week of my vacation on her spring break.

Most years we would have some sort of birthday celebration as part of her vacation. It was one of the highlights of every year to spend spring break right with her before her birthday. It didn't make up for 49 or 50 weeks apart a year, but it was quality time. Our relationship was largely built on those intensive visits and ime together spent a week at a time, two or three times a year.

I few years ago our spring break routine was disrupted when I had to attend a wedding for my then-fiance's sister. At one point we had offered to take my daughter with us on the trip to an exotic beach locale, but she didn't really feel comfortable making such a big trip to be surrounded by strangers. So for the first time in many years I wasn't going to see my daughter for her spring vacation or birthday. The guilt was profound and I bought a pretty extravagant gift, diamond earrings, for her. Perhaps it was a bit much for a young girl just entering her teens, but it was at a period of my live where diamonds seemed to be a way to say I love you.

Now, I'm heading off to another wedding, this one for a dear friend, and am looking forward to seeing several other friends whom I haven't scene in almost two years. So, I'm pretty excited about all that. But I'm also feeling that profound guilt of again devoting my daughter's time to someone else to attend another wedding.

But there isn't likely to be an extravagant guilt gift this year. I just don't have the funds at this point in my life. And I feel guilty about that too.

There's plenty of guilt about the financial situation, which has also cut into visits with my daughter of late. My trips to see her, though she's an only easy drive away, have been limited. There just haven't been the funds to fill the gas tank, or pay for dinners out. My poor old rig is neglected too, and more than a thousand miles overdue for an oil change. But the vehicle is rapidly approaching the end of its useful life, and not nearly the source of guilt that the lost time with my daughter inflicts.

So, I need to figure out a special gift for her birthday. Not too expensive perhaps, but personal and unique. Not that I have a clue what that might be. What's the perfect gift to give your daughter to tell her you are sorry for all the lost years, birthdays and holidays?

Can I sleep while you drive?

I should be sleeping right now.

It's been a busy weekend and I'm exhausted. I should be in bed. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in so long, I'm losing track. The reason I haven't been sleeping is, well, I'm not sure, other than I've had a lot of stuff on my mind. And the reason I'm not sleeping now is that I still have a lot of stuff on my mind, and a load of clothes in the drier.

I don't know where to begin, so I'll begin with how the day has ended. A short while ago I sat on the couch, watching the end of "Grey's Anatomy" with tears streaming down my face. I'm tempted to say I'm not sure why I was crying, but that's a lie. There were a couple of story lines on the show dealing with parenthood and they got to me. In one a mother, dying of cancer, struggles with what to tell or not tell her daughter about her illness and about life. Those little things that parents so want to tell their children. Those nuggets of wisdom that sound so profound in the head but seem to sound so flat when spoken out loud.

That story line got to me because, well, my daughter turned 15 today and I have spent her lifetime trying to figure out what to say to her about so many things, to impart love and wisdom, and fall so flat when we are side by side or face to face.

The other story line is about a man who is the father of Dr. Grey, the title character on the show. The man so wants to reach out to his daughter, but doesn't know how. He left the family when she was young and doesn't know how to rekindle a long dormant relationship.

Fortunately, my daughter and I don't have a dormant relationship. It is certainly much less than I want it to be and is perhaps more than she wants as a teenage girl wanting to fit in and be cool with her friends.

I spend part of Saturday evening with my daughter and her family at a birthday party for her. I relish any time with her, like a dog begging for scraps. I find myself watching her, staring at her, trying to absorb the essence of who and what she is as a young woman. When I left there was a sense of emptiness. It's a feeling I've come to know well over the years, but never get used to. The visits are shorter now in duration but more frequent than they used to be. So that emptiness, the goodbye vacuum, is a much more frequent part of my life. And yet, not frequent enough. And I feel guilty for feeling sad after visits with her. I should be happy that I'm part of her life, right? That her family includes me in activities. That when I say I love her she responds in kind, the words not even stumbling in her throat or tripping over her teeth. Those are all good things, right?

It's been a weekend of nostalgia, remembrance and regret, lots of driving and little snatches of time with family and old friends.

Today, I woke up early, after getting home late after my daughter's birthday party, losing an hour's sleep to the time change, and drove nearly 4 hours to attend another gathering for a friend who is about ready to ship off to a war zone. Along the way, I called to wish another friend a happy birthday and learned from the ticker on CNN that a storm was bearing down on my lady friend Brat's hometown, again.

No matter where I was this weekend, I felt out of place. Like I was watching it all as if it was a performance on stage, somehow separate from it all and numb. Not because I felt nothing but because I felt too much and the nerve endings and synapses could no longer process the sensations.

And then, after talking to Brat online after her latest adventure and sitting quietly on the couch, listening to the drier tumble I watch a fictionalized account of other people's lives and the emotion overflowed, spilling out the corners of my eyes, streaming over my cheeks and pouring onto my shirt, like the waterfalls I passed today while driving through the Columbia River Gorge. Some picture postcard that would make.

It was a good day. A good weekend. It was too much and not enough. So many epiphanies on the road, listening to classic rock and seeing one of the most beautiful corners of the world. Seeing and talking to so many people I love and care about and worry about and miss in such a short span of time.

I shouldn't go so long without talking to family, friends and people who are important to me. I shouldn't go so many days without decent sleep. I shouldn't go so many days without writing here. I shouldn't drive 500 miles in a day. I shouldn't listen to so much old music on a trip home.

I really should be sleeping right now.

Parenthood
Insomnia
Family
Friends
Road trip

Still poor

No, the reason you haven't heard from me in the last few days is not that I won the record Powerball lottery jackpot over the weekend. I'm still here. Still poor. Just too lazy to post, um, I mean busy -- too busy to post.

Yea, that's it.

That and looking through family records to see if I have any family living in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Hey, it's possible. Not that distant relatives would include me in their winnings, but it's still possible.

Have I mentioned how important family is to me, particularly distant family?

Go Huskers!

What the hell else is there in Nebraska that I can say positive things about? Not damn much. Well, there is the Oregon Trail running through there, but I doubt the Powerball Trail is going to lead to this Oregonian's door.

Selfish fucking Nebraskans anyway.

Powerball lottery
Family

Holiday hangover

I hope everyone had a great holiday. I did. But I have to admit, while driving home last night, I found myself in a pretty melancholy mood. After a busy weekend with family and friends, the prospect of returning to an empty apartment was a bit overwhelming. It's probably a good think I didn't make a post last night, it might have been a real downer and not a true reflection of the nice Christmas holiday I was fortunate to enjoy. It's also a good thing that the mini-market I planned to stop at on my way home was closed as well, because booze would not have been good in that state of mind.

There are just some times when you don't want to be alone.

That said, I can't feel too sorry for myself. I was very fortunate to spend the better part of three days with friends and family, even if it required criss-crossing the northern tier of Oregon on consecutive days. I got to spend time with my parents, my 91-year-old grandmother, my two brothers, my daughter and part of her family. I got fed two amazing Christmas meals, and I got to spend Friday night with some old and dear friends.

It was a good Christmas. But what surprised me what that it was also a tougher Christmas than I expected. I kept getting bombarded by memories of my ex all throughout the season, and over the weekend in particular. I wasn't expected that. After all, this was the second holiday I've spend as a newly single man. I knew last Christmas would be tough, but I didn't expect to be assaulted by so many memories this year. I thought I was over the worst of it. And I suppose I am. But please, dear God, remind me if I ever do something as crazy as asking a woman to marry me again, give me the good sense to do it on a date not tied to some other holiday. No Christmas or Valentines or Independence Day engagement.

I friend of mine who has a Christmas Eve birthday was hoping to get an engagement ring this holiday. I don't know if she got it or not, but I sort of hope she didn't. I don't say that because I wish her and her beau ill. I just think that, based on my own experience, I would wish that her engagement, if it is indeed coming, would be its own occasion with it's own special date to celebrate. And if, God forbid, the engagement or marriage doesn't work out, her birthday or Christmas would not then be an ongoing reminder of that heartbreak. And if it did work out, then there is another special date on the calendar each year for them to remember and celebrate as a couple.

As for me, I'm looking forward to putting 2005 behind me. It's been a big year, full of major life changes. Certainly enough for one year. I'm ready for a new year and a new start. New Year's Day is easily my favorite holiday. It's a day full of promise, possibility hope and anticipation.

I also have a confession when it comes to this blog. For those of you who have been reading this site for a while, perhaps you've already been able to tell. But I've been holding back on the things that I write here.

Perhaps my reason for doing this is unjustified paranoia. But I've had this feeling that someone who knows me here in Salem has discovered, or may discover this site, and that has made me uncomfortable. I have grown afraid to say too much, so I've found myself not saying much of anything at all of late. I'm not happy with that, but I have not yet decided what to do about that. I've entertained thoughts of abandoning this site and starting over. I've debated whether to stop blogging all together. Neither prospect appeals to me very much. But I do know this, for the last year this site as been something akin to self-therapy and a bit of a creative outlet. It has also been something of a tool for social interaction as well, with some close friends having access to this URL and a few friendly strangers stopping in from time to time to share a thought or a word. And that interaction has been welcomed and appreciated.

Where I go from here I don't know. But for now I don't plan to abandon this site. However, I will let those of you who may care know if something changes.

Holidays
Blogging