29 October 2010

We've established that I can walk reasonable distances and for long periods of time. but this--




--this is kicking my ass.

The first time out on it I managed 15 minutes before I was sucking wind and feeling like I was going to hurl, and distance wise I only made it .83 miles.

Today I managed 20 minutes--I'm not sure how far because I didn't have my GPS thingy on me--but at least I didn't want to hork up my lunch.

I'm hoping that between it and the Trikke I'll serious up my cardio conditioning, but for now...geeeeeeez.

25 October 2010

“How,” the question was, “do you come to grips with your child having that creative spark that makes you just know the life they're going to pick is going to be hard? When you know that they have the talent, but the odds are stacked so high against them, how do you get past wanting to push them into studying for something stable and going after work that ends up with health benefits and a pension and a real retirement? How do you not discourage them?”

I had that discussion last night, and today ran across someone quoting a speech Stephen King made in 2003 when accepting the National Book Award For Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.

There were some hard, dark years before Carrie. We had two kids and no money. We rotated the bills, paying on different ones each month. I kept our old car, a Buick, going with duct tape and bailing wire. It was a time when my wife might have been expected to say, "Why don't you quit spending three hours a night in the laundry room, Steve, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer we can't afford? Why don't you get an actual job?

Okay, this is the real stuff. If she'd asked me, I almost certainly would have done it [...] One of the few times during the early years of my marriage I saw my wife cry really hard was when I told her the paperback publisher, New American Library, had paid a ton of money for the book she rescued from the trash. I could quit teaching, she could quit pushing crullers at Dunkin' Donuts. She looked almost unbelieving for five seconds and then she put her hands over her face and she wept.

My point is that Tabby always knew what I was supposed to be doing, and she believed I could succeed at it. There is a time in the lives of most authors when they are vulnerable, when the vivid dreams and ambitions of childhood seem to pale in the harsh sunlight of what we call the real world. [...] If my wife had suggested to me, even with love and kindness and gentleness rather than her more common with and good-natured sarcasm, that the time had come for me to put my dreams away and support my family, I would have done that with no complaint. I believe on some level of thought I was expecting to have that conversation. [...] Tabitha has told me since that it never crossed her mind to have such a conversation. You had second job, she said, in the laundry room with my typewriter. I hope you know, Tabby, that they are clapping for you and not me. Stand up so they can see you, please. Thank you. Thank you. I did not let her see this speech, and will hear about this later.

I think when someone you care about has that spark, you know it, whether you're willing to admit that to yourself or not. You can choose to stand in front of them and block the way, because hell, you don't want them to make a mistake that colors their entire life; you can stand beside them and try to guide them off the path but not too far, just in case they have a real shot at their dream; you can stand behind them and push them in the direction you know they need to be going, because you want for them what they want.

You can let the manuscript lie in the trash can to be tossed away, you can pull it out and put it away for later, or you can pull it out and hand it back with the message that this is good, this deserves to be shared.

I threw away a few manuscripts early on because the feedback I got was all right, but not what I expected; I knew I could write, but the vibe was pretty clear: success as a writer was unrealistic, so I better have something to fall back on. The talent was there, sure, but you know only about 5% of published writers make enough to live on, and think of all the unpublished wannabes out there.

Tabitha King certainly could have asked her husband to set the writing aside, even for a little while, for the sake of comfort...but what then? Take a look in the bookstore; how much of it might the rest of us not have if she had done just that? She likely knew what a lot of people don't: writing isn't something you do; a writer is what you are.

You can edit out writer and insert a number of other things: singer, dancer, actor. Chef. Photographer.

How do you come to grips with your child practically having a calling to something that may not pay well, could be a constant race to the next thing that might be “it?” How do you not push them hard to have something else to fall back on?

You just do.

That's not to say you won't screw it up every now and then, because it's your kid. Yeah, you probably will verbalize that wish that they'd study something else as a backup plan. That doesn't mean you have to say it in a way that suggests you want that because you don't think they have what it takes. But when you have your parental wits about you, understand this: they don't really have a choice.

I don't write for the money; I write because that's what I am. Those monthly royalties are nice, but I would write whether I was paid for it or not. The words, the characters, the story lines—those have to get out of my head an onto virtual paper, whether anyone else ever sees them or not.

Maybe that skews my parental perspective a bit, because I come from that place of This is what I am, this is what I have to do. When the Boy took that first acting class, it was to explore his expanding interests; when that interest took fire, it didn't make sense to push him in another direction, because he would know sooner or later whether or not that being an actor was something he wanted to do, or if it was something he was.

In the beginning, it might have been something he wanted to do, but the more he immersed himself in it, the more we realized that it wasn't an interest, it was part of him. Each time we've seen him perform he's gotten better, to the point that watching him as Mercutio this past summer...he wasn't an actor playing a part, he was Mercutio. On stage, he sheds himself and pulls on someone else's skin and personality, and it's an amazing and chilling thing to watch.

During intermission I was on my phone and posting to Facebook: he can't ever not act.

The scope of it is up to him, but there's no denying that he's not a waiter who occasionally acts: he's an actor.

And I think that's how we come to grips with it all: we have to realize that our kids are not just extensions of ourselves, and they're not these fragile things we need to constantly protect. We need to recognize them for what they are, and sometimes what they are is the budding writer, the passionate dancer, or the growing actor.

We might want for them to have something to fall back onto, but then again, if they have something to fall back on, they just might fall back.

So...the answer is to suck it up. Support in ways you can. Let them be who they are. Because frankly, the world needs them every bit as much as the world needs doctors and lawyers and farmers.

Follow your bliss...

Sometimes, your bliss is written as deep as your DNA.

You can empty their life's manuscript from the trash can and make sure they never see it again, or you can rescue it and encourage them to keep at it.

They don't have much choice.

You do.

23 October 2010

You know you're leading a really hard life when the lowlight of your day is that Denny's ran out of chicken noodle soup.

Really.

I may never get over it.

18 October 2010

File under Well Duh:

While addressing a stack of envelopes by hand, I inverted a couple of numbers on a street address, and muttered--out loud--"Gotta redo that, can't send it with a typo."

Um. Yeah.

Typo.

17 October 2010

"Yanno," the text said, "this would be a lot easier if you would just TALK ON THE PHONE."

Well, it would certainly be easier for the other person. At least at first. But after a few "What was that?" and "I can't hear you, sorry," and "Huh? I didn't catch that," anyone would have to agree, talking to me on the phone is not All That.

Combine that with Writer's Brain (or: I really do need to stop to think and edit, then redraft, and think again before putting anything out there) and I'm all kinds of fun to talk to on the phone.

It's not personal, people.

It's simple.

I CAN'T HEAR YOU.

Plus, I'm kinda socially backwards. And phone phobic.

Trust me, texting is the miracle by which you want to communicate with me.

16 October 2010

Overheard in Border's today:

You know, I'm trying to see Dad's point of view, but I just can't shove my head that far up my ass.

Almost choked on my tea...

15 October 2010

In training for the 3 Day, I walked around 600 miles. That's about 60,000 calories burned; most days my caloric intake was 1,500, but on the 12, 15, and 18 miles days it jacked up to 2,000 out of necessity.

You'd think I would have lost weight like crazy, but I didn't lose a damned thing. I haven't lost a damned thing since early January, in spite of carefully counting the calories and increasing my activity level.

Yes, this majorly bums me out.

In any case, I'm thinking that by Monday or Tuesday my feet will be back to 95% normal and I can get back out there to walk and/or Trikke. I was getting a little worried because the re-awakening nerves were getting to be seriously painful and the walking I had to do--shopping, just getting from the living room to the bathroom--was starting to really hurt.

Then someone posted on Facebook about the shoes they'd recently purchased and how soft and comfy they were, and I remembered that before I started the whole training thing that I'd bought a similar pair. And as I recalled, they were awfully cushiony.

I dug them out from under the bed and put them on, and damn...super comfortable and they kept me off the balls of my feet.

Coincidentally or not, the agony of de-feet lessened and now my toes only itch a bit. There are still numbish spots, but I don't notice that unless I rub the toes over the sheets or against each other.

So...a weekend of probably not much other than working, and then back to working out. And while I work out, I'll probably contemplate this as the next new toy:

 

Street Strider Fusion

Nope, don't need it, but dang I want it.

I know, I know....

14 October 2010

T-shirt spotted in Border's today:
BEER IS CHEAPER THAN GAS
so
DRINK DON'T DRIVE

Made me snicker, anyway...

12 October 2010

On the plus side, I think I've got about 85% of the feeling back in my toes.

On the minus side, I realized this at 3 a.m. when the searing pain of waking nerves jolted me from sleep.

Fun times, fun times...

9 October 2010

One of the things that had to fall by the wayside once my training mileage started to pile up was the motorcycle. On days I would normally go out and spend a couple of mindless hours riding for the fun of it, I was out pounding the pavement for multiple hours for the benefit of it.

I think between late August and now I've only ridden two or three times, and in total less than 200 miles.

I missed my bike.

Getting back on it was one of the things I was looking forward to; I'd pretty much made up my mind that a couple of days after the end of the 3 Day I'd pull the bike out of the garage, check the tire pressure and oil and other necessary things, and ride.

I hadn't counted on having numbish toes; I should have expected sore feet but that didn't really factor into my personal equation. I was going to be done walking, I was going to ride!

Each day, the feet are getting a little bit better. I can feel my toes, but they have that post-dentist visit feeling, when the anesthetic is mostly worn off but there's still a little residual numbness. And now when I press on the balls of my feet, I can feel the electric nerve sensation shooting into my toes. And yep, they're still a bit sore.

Today I figured I'd be good to go. I can mostly feel my feet, the rest of me feels fine--it's time to ride. So I put on my riding jeans, grabbed my boots and went to put them on...and the boots didn't fit.

Apparently my feet are slightly swollen. My walking shoes are a half size big, so I didn't really notice that. But the boots, they were tight.

In them, I couldn't feel my feet.

Well. Hell.

So apparently my motorcycle is going to remain in the garage for a few more days. I could take the scooter out--I don't need to feel a shifting peg or read brake pedal with that--but the idea of the potential bootless wreck made me think otherwise. I could ride in sneakers...choose not to.

So instead of riding, I did some writing, and am now practicing housework avoidance.

Practice makes perfect, you know...

7 October 2010

They got me through the 3 day walk...



...and they did not blister like I feared, but. But.

My toes went mostly numb on day 3, and they're still mostly numb, and it's starting to drive me a little batshit insane.

No, I don't think it's permanent, but I'd kind of like to get back to working out and I worry that if I jump back into walking several miles a day that it will become permanent.

All in all I'm quite happy with how my feet held up, but really, I would like to have all the feeling back...

4 October 2010

Well NOW they tell me...

30 September 2010

Timing is everything.

Which is probably why the air condition picked now to croak, just before leaving for the SGK walk.

The Spouse Thingy will come back and deal with it, but dang.

I am going to hear dollar signs with every step I take this weekend I think. Sixty miles of ca-ching.

Ah, well. We knew when we bought a slightly older house that we'd have to replace the unit sooner rather than later, but it would have been nice if this had happened like two weeks ago, or waited a week.

The cats need to be comfortable, after all...

26 September 2010

It's hot out, I was walking around the Factory Outlet stores, and I needed something to drink. A whole lot of something; I wasn't sure if my thirst was gripping because of the heat, because my DDAVP was wearing off early, or a combination, but it was fairly significant. So I wandered into the kinda-sorta food court, got a large soft drink (McD's is spoiling me with their $1 large...I was annoyed at having to pop for $2...) and found a table to sit at.

I could have kept wandering around, but not knowing if I'd need a refill or five, I stayed put. And I slammed that sucker back, draining it in less than two minutes, and was refilling it before most people would have taken their third sip.

You know what happens when you slam back a soft drink? And then another?

Things happen that most teenage boys would be proud of. I felt the offending bubbles pushing against my stomach, and knew there was no holding this back. If I let it loose, it would reverberate off the walls. But I have a modicum of control and managed to squelch it somewhat, but there was no mistaking that growling kind of sound coming from me was a healthy burp.

Just as I was congratulating myself for not letting it rip as loud as I could have, at the tail end of what seemed like the endless stream of belch, a woman at a nearby table yelled; her voice was an unexpected thunderclap of, "Don't do that! My God, that's so rude!"

Well.

She was so sudden, abrupt, and loud that I acutally jumped in my seat, and as I turned to her I blurted out, "Jesus, I'm sorry! I couldn't help it!"

Dead silence around me.

And I realized then that she was looking at her little boy, a four year old with his finger wedged about as far up his nose as it could get.

I can still hear the snickering that followed me as I hurried out the door...

---

If you don't follow my other blog, A Wabbit Walking, you may not know that this coming Friday is the first day of the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walk for the Cure in San Francisco. And you may not know about my spiffy Supergirl cape. It's pink, and I'm wearing it the first day, and on it will be the names of people who have had breast cancer--some we've lost, some who have survived, and some who are fighting.

If you have a someone, and you would like me to carry their name, I would be honored to do so. Just pop on over there and leave their name in the comments of this post.

One days 2 and 3, I have t-shirts that will bear the names of the people we love and care about. One way or the other, I will carry those names with me all 3 days.

I can't wait to meet all my teammates; fundraising isn't done, so if you're inclined and haven't had the chance, pop over to our team page; it doesn't matter to which one of us a donation goes. Though, I just might be behind everyone else. Just sayin' ;)

17 September 2010

How I know I'm noticeable:

I walked the outlet stores in Vacaville today(and surrounding area) rather than suck up 18 miles in Dixon, and around mile 10, just as I was getting ready to stop for lunch, I passed a couple and overheard one of them, just as I passed, say, "holy $hit, just how phcking far does she walk?!"

I'm guessing he's local and has seen me in Dixon...kinda wonder if he thought I walked all the way there...

13 September 2010

File under I Want:

The bookcase, not the guy...

7 September 2010

In the interest of giving me some additional time walking hills, the Spouse Thingy and I headed for San Francisco again. Bonus: the BART train didn't smell like pee today. Since it's a 45 minute ride from Concord to the place we get off of the train, that's a definite plus.

As soon as we got there we met up with Diva Kitty's Mom for lunch at Max's (who knew Max had a side endeavor? Not surprised it involves food, though...) ...hell, we've lived within 40 miles for years and just now got around to meeting. Stupidly, there are no pictures. We had a camera, didn't even think of taking pictures.

Afterward, Mike and I headed out to walk, and the first steep street we encountered was this one...from the bottom. And we walked up.

Holy carp...the picture doesn't do it justice. It felt a hell of a lot steeper than it seems looking at this.

My knee decided halfway up that it was stupid steep.

But...once at the top we were rewarded with this view (click the image to biggify)...peeking through the buildings, you can see the Bay Bridge. I would guess that on a clearer day, it would be even more noticeable.

We spent about 5 hours walking around, but probably only 90 minutes or so was hills.

Face it, after not too long, walking steep streets fades from a good workout into unbridled masochism. And that's not something in which one should engage publically.

So, we walked around China Town, went to the Cheesecake Factory, and then to Westlake mall for the hell of it.

China Town

Union Square from TCF

Westlake Mall, looking up

There's still a couple of weeks left before the Walk...that's a couple more opportunities to go walk the inclines and see more of the city.

It's a hardship, truly ;)

4 September 2010

Bah.

I stopped taking my growth hormone a couple of months ago. Between insurance headaches and my age--the older I get the closer I slide towards a cancerous family history--I decided to stop taking it, and just see what happens.

I worried about increased pain, but that hasn't happened.

What happened?

I got flabbier. A lot flabbier.

I'm not gaining weight (not losing any, either) but I'm getting reallllly flabby.

That sucks.

31 August 2010

How to turn 49:

The day before, go check out a Dave & Busters, be really disappointed in it, so instead wander around a mall you've never been to.

It'll be cool. Really. Much bigger than your local mall.

Then, do something you've always wanted to do. Like, go see the Golden Gate Bridge. Walk on it. Then go into the gift shop to get a sweatshirt that actually fits...

Then go see other things. Like Union Square. And Pier 39. and express incredible disappointment that there's a sign forbidding anyone to get on that giant macaroni noodle, because you realy really wanted to sit on it ;)

Then, go to a flea market:

Spend the day walking around, looking at other peoples' crap, but chances are, you won't find any fleas...

Then...go to Six Flags.

Walk around all day, but take the time to see the tigers...even if they do get a little dramatic and lie prostrate on the ground, as if wailing No...stop taking my picture...! and one of the coolest parts of the day will be seeing two baby tigers, and then two grown ones playing Thundering Herd of Elephants.

Oh, and when you caually say "It would be really cool if he got into the water" while sitting there looking at a beautiful tiger, and he gets up and gets in the water, your day will totally be made.

Next, go to San Francsico. To avoid the driving nightmare of having been there to see the Golden Gate Bridge, take the BART train in, even though it smells like pee.

First order of business: walk. Walk and walk and walk. Up the biggest damn hill you've ever walked. Keep walking, until you've gone halfway across San Francisco and are at the Wharf.

Finally get to see Ghiradelli Square...

See all kinds of unique people...

Then walk some more so that you can catch a cable car back to where you were:

...because you've never ridden one before, and if you're going to do the tourist thing, you have to ride it at least once.

Then walk around a whole lot more. See the big mall. See the people. Take the BART train back, even though it still smells like pee.

Oh, and don't do all of this in one day. Not possible. At least not advisable.

Do it all...it'll make turning 49 fun. Or at least take the sting out if it.

23 August 2010

Why Ask Why?
(cross posted to A Wabbit Walking)

Simple enough question. “Why are you doing this?”

Look, I've kind of expected that question all along and have had a pat answer: nothing I've gone through—none of the chronic pain (I'm not proud, I'll list it: Fibromyalgia, Chronic Myofascial Pain, and arthritis in my lower spine and in both hips), the months in the wheelchair, the brain tumor, the marathon peeing and drinking and wondering when the hell my meds will kick in, or worse when they'll wear off—has been half as hard as someone else hearing they have breast cancer, and then what they go through in treatment. The chemo. The radiation.

It sounds like a great answer, right? Doing this long walk because even when you add it onto everything else, it still seems insignificant.

But before I could type out my at answer, I was hit with, “And don't give me any of the typical bullshit. I don't really need to know why you're doing it. YOU need to know why you're doing it.”

Well...fine. Color me stumped and momentarily speechless.

“Don't tell me either that you're doing it because The Grate Jeter Harris Hizself's mom asked you to. Why are YOU doing it?”

The person posing the question? He doesn't really expect an answer. He's the kind of person that asks random crap just to make other people ponder themselves. I imagine he asks himself random crap like this all the time, just for the exercise of self-introspection. I imagine he asks his wife things all the time to just get her to stop in time and in place for a moment, to simply consider.

I had plenty of time over the weekend to ponder the why of it all. I distracted myself from the sheer number of steps required to complete 17 and then 13 miles with a really good audiobook, but that didn't keep my brain from working in the background while I was listening to Joshilyn Jackson read her own work. The last two miles of Saturday's 17 hurt like hell, and I pondered it over and over.

What the hell am I doing to myself?

When I got up Sunday morning and had knee pain that rated an 8 on a 1-10 scale, I briefly considered not walking at all. Why go through the pain? After all, this is the training portion, this isn't the “real walk.”

Except that it is.

I got up and walked, not because I'm a masochist, and not because I'm some wonderful person who said she'd do it, so she's doing it. I got up and walked because all the steps leading up to The Walk count. They're part of the process. They're part of bigger picture. They're just as real as It is.

I'm not kidding anyone; this training is kicking my ass, and it fucking hurts. That pain you feel the first day after starting a new exercise routine? I start from there. My best days start from some version of that. I knew that when I accepted the invitation to sign up for this walk, and I decided to do it in spite of it.

And the truth is that I didn't say I'd do it because getting a diagnoses of cancer is harder than anything I've gone through; I didn't do it because chemo and radiation and mastectomy are more difficult. When it comes down to it, I wanted to do this because what I've gone through has been hard. It's been gut wrenchingly hard, and it's been Phuckit-am-I-going-to-die? hard.

Hearing a bad diagnoses? I've been there. I remember what it felt like to be told I had a tumor clinging to the underside of my brain, and that it was big. I remember the dread of being told that because it was big, and because they just couldn't tell from the MRI exactly what type of tumor it was—something harmless or something insidious—that it had to come out; I know now how fear drips from your fingertips in electric slivers. I will never forget the feeling of checking into the hospital and just not knowing. How badly will this hurt? How long will it take? Will I wake up and hear “Sorry, but it sucks to be you”? Will I wake up at all? I still feel the resignation of knowing that I wasn't getting out of it, that someone was going to reach into my head and cut something out, and if I bolted it just meant more uncertainty.

Will I live, or will I die?

I've done hard.

I don't want other people to do hard.

I don't want some 20-something young woman who hasn't even started her life to have to face anything that hard. Or some 20-something young man. Or 30 or 40-something. 90-something.

This wouldn't even have to be a walk for breast cancer. My mother had lymphoma; I could easily do a walk for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and I may at some point. Hell, I probably will. My father had kidney cancer. I could easily walk for symptom awareness, how to save your own life.

It's all hard. It's all fucking hard.

But this? I can do this. If any or every step I take means there's a small chance that someday someone else won't have to sit there and hear about some wayward thing growing in their body, that's some of the why of it all.

The possibilities.

The hope.

That doesn't make me some Pollyanna tightass halo-glowing wonderdork; I'm not doing anything thousands upon thousands of other people aren't doing and haven't already done this year. Hell, if I hadn't been asked to join a team*, it never would have crossed my mind. And when I was asked, it scared the hell out of me.

Because I knew it would be hard.

I will probably find myself weighed down with more doubts over the next month; the next long walk weekend is 18 miles one day and (I think) 15 the next. It's going to hurt, and I'm going to complain about it. Not whine, but complain, because it's going to hurt, and it's going to be hard.

The thing is, hard isn't fatal.

Why am I doing it? I think the answer is because I need to know that I can. That everything that's been hard hasn't been in vain. So that I can say I damn well did it.

It's a selfish motivation.

:::shrugs:::

I can live with that.

*Blogger Babes for Boobies...if you haven't donated yet, please consider picking one of my kickass teammates to toss a few bucks at.

15 August 2010

Norval G. Whisler 5/7/27 - 8/10/10

My father was a navy veteran; he served at the end of World War II and during the Korean War, so I should not have been surprised that there was a Naval Color Guard on hand for his funeral, but when they got out of their car I curiously asked one sister, "Are there here for him?"

Color guard bugler

Really, I should have asked if they were here for us, because I found the playing of taps and folding of the flag to be dignity that my father deserved, and it was incredibly touching. I hold deep respect for service members who serve for funerals; it takes a special sense of honor to be able to do that, and it requires utmost respect and care, something not everyone can pull off, no matter how badly they want to.

After the playing of taps, the folding of the flag, and presenting it to my mother, the minister spoke; he didn't drone on and on and never tried to make it seems as if he knew my father, which I appreciated; he picked the right scriptures, and kept his part of it short and sweet, and then began to read pages of memories written by some of the grandkids and of my sisters.

That's when the laughing started.

Appropriately or not, my father's funeral soon swelled with laughter; their remembrances were touching and loving, but some of the things they shared were flat out funny and we couldn't help but laugh. And the common thread was the funniest, something my father did that trickled down from his kids to his grandkids.

Every night my father sat in his chair in the living room with a canned drink--sometimes beer, sometimes not--and when he wanted a new one, he grabbed the can and squeezed until it crinkled. We all knew what that meant: get up and get your father (or grandpa) another drink. There was no question about it; we just did it. When my oldest sister's twins were little, they raced to the kitchen to see who could be the first to get Grandpa his drink. It meant something to them; they wanted to win, to be the one who got to get it for him.

Everyone remembered the crinkling of the can. And every shared page of memories made mention of that, it was so ingrained. And in looking back, it was freaking funny.

The funeral was simple and sweet, with mostly close family in attendance, which is what he would have wanted. And I think he would have loved that he left us with laughter.

Me, my niece Shannon, and her way-too-cute baby boy Caleb

It didn't stop there; after lunch (more laughter) the Spouse Thingy and I went home with my mom and sister, to just chill for the rest of the afternoon, until everyone else came over for dinner (they humored me and sent out for Schlotzsky's which I wasn't leaving Texas without having) and while we sat there, all of us somewhat drowsy and  fighting it, my sister Dorothy looked at our mother and said, "Tell them about his hand."

My dad, for whatever reason, was never a jewelry person; other than a wristwatch, I don't think I ever saw him with anything remotely resembling jewelry on. But when he was on a ship headed for Korea, he wrote my mom and asked her to get him a wedding ring and send it.

I don't know why; it was surely an all-male crew back then and he likely wasn't fending off unwanted female attention, but he wanted a wedding ring. So she went out and got it for him and sent it off. He wore it through the rest of his service time, but afterward he worked with machinery that made it a little dangerous to have a ring on his finger. I'm guessing that he rather enjoyed having the use of all ten digits, so the ring came off and went into my mom's jewelry box. He never wore it again.

Until now.

"I got the last laugh," my mother said impishly. "I'm sending him through eternity with that ring on."

I can hear my dad now.

Dammit!....Heh...

10 August 2010

It's August 10th, 2010.

In 16 days I turn 49 years old.

My father died this morning.

It was not unexpected, but that doesn't lessen the sting any. His health had been on the decline and he'd gone from being this stoic, strong man to being frail and needing help for just about everything. He had Parkinson's Disease, had survived kidney cancer, and had lost most of his hearing, and I'm sure he hated all of that.

But, he died at home, which is where he wanted to be. And it's where he could be because my sister Dorothy quit her job a couple of years ago and dedicated herself to caring for our parents. She gave up having any real life for herself, and has done the full time job of at least four people, providing them with hands-on dedicated care, doing it all.

Yeah, we owe her. We owe he a lot.

But, my dad. I wrote this on his 81st birthday, and it seems fitting to run again:

When I was a little kid, mid-to-late 60's - early 70's, women were burning their bras and fighting for equality, while little girls were banned from things like Little League baseball and auto shop. Girls were discouraged from developing friendships with those dirty, dirty boy because ONE DAY those dirty, dirty boys would harbor dirty, dirty thoughts about them. While the boys played rough games of Kick Me Off The Monkey Bars during recess, the girls were expected to swing (with their legs crossed if they were in a dress, of course) or play hop scotch.

Girls had Girl Things to do, and boys had Boy Things. One certainly did not teach his young daughter to hook a worm and cast a fishing pole, and one certainly did not spend fatherly one-on-one time at the side of a small lake teaching her the difference between trout and crappie.

Except for my dad.

Whether it was a conscious effort on his part to blur the gender lines or if he just wanted to teach one of his kids to fish, my father ruined many of his own fishing trips by taking me along. He taught me how to get the worm on the hook in a way it wouldn't wash off, he taught me how to cast my own rod and what it felt like when I had a bite. He made me hold my catch myself, all slimy and gross, and get the hook out.

When we were in Germany, I spent more mornings with him out by the water than I can readily count. It couldn't have been much fun for him, sitting there with an overly talkative and whiny little girl, but he did it. He allowed me to step over those gender lines as if it was a matter of course.

There were no arguments about his little girl playing baseball in the giant community backyard with the boys. He even bought me a baseball glove.

He once bought me a guitar while he was on TDY and held it on his lap on the plane ride home; while other little girls were learning feminine woodwinds, I learned to rock out.

I played on the junior high school basketball team, and never once heard "girls don't do that."

I mowed the lawn; one summer he hired the son of a family friend to cut the grass, but when I wanted to save money to buy a 10 speed bike, the job was mine. I never heard "that's not girl's work," though many of my friends heard it from their fathers. Mine handed over the lawn mower to his 12 year old daughter, paid her $4 a week, and when I had almost enough money, he drove me to pick out my bike and he covered my monetary shortfall.

About a mile from home he pulled the station wagon over, and told me to ride it the rest of the way home. I hadn't asked, but he knew how badly I wanted to ride my new toy. He pulled the bike out of the car and let me go.

My dad, whether he intended to or not, whether he was comfortable with it nor not, stepped a little bit ahead of the times and let his daughter soar. I don't know if he went with the changing times or if he saw that no matter what, his youngest daughter was never going to be a girly-girl and accepted it for what it was, but he allowed me to be me before the climate of the times would.

Whatever his reasons, what he gave me was the gift of being comfortable with myself. My parents are amazing people, but it really sticks with me that my father was a little progressive when my friends' fathers were not, and could not, be. Very quietly, he gave me that sense of comfort, he showed me strength, he showed me what real men are made of.

Today my dad is 81.

You may thank him for the gift of me. I am that special ;) Oh, and wish him a Happy Birthday, too. He deserves all the good wishes the world can muster.

The world is just a bit dimmer today without him. While he's in a better place—and I do believe that—it sucks for the rest of us.

Truly sucks.

1 August 2010

All the walking has taken a bit of a toll on my feet, keeping me mostly off them during part of this last week. Murf suggested I soak my feet in strong brewed tea to help toughen them up, and I figured why not? I can't hurt and might help.

Is that my freaking litterbox???

Max, on the other hand, wasn't too sure about the whole thing.

For starters, I used a litter box to pour the tea into (a new one, cripes) which had him staring like WTF? and then sat with it in the living room while I watched a couple things that were on the DVR.

That was as close as he got; even though he's well acquainted with the litter box, he wasn't taking any chances with something that was obviously wet, and at his level.

It's way too soon to know if the tea will help--only soaking once is probably not going to tell me diddly squat--but it felt soothing enough to keep trying.

But what felt really good...

No, it's not that deep...

After walking fourteen miles today, I had this waiting for me in the back yard.

The water is still too cold--it was only filled the day before yesterday--but as hot and sticky and sweaty as I was, it felt great.

This is our cheap-assed Sam's Club special, an 18' vinyl pool on ground that's not exactly level--though the Spouse Thingy got it a hell of a lot more level than it would have been--and the one we figure made more sense than popping for something like a Doughboy. If we keep using this, maybe in a year or two we'll get the permanent pool, but for now, this is awesome.

Even if Max does look out the back window with an expression like "Dood, you're taking a bath outside?"

27 July 2010

The last week or so my life has been wrapped around my feet: blisters, hot spots, the right socks, the wrong socks, is the Glide working, is it not...? I walk, I whine. I think if I liked wine, I'd whine less.

While I've been preoccupied with my feet, the Spouse Thingy has been leveling a 19' diameter circle in the back yard; he dug up the grass, figured out how many inches each side needed to be, and has hauled around 30 sixty pound bags of sand, 6-8 at a time, home from Home Depot to aid in leveling the area.

When it's ready, we have a cheap assed Intex pool we're going to put up. You know, the vinyl kind you buy at Sam's Club on a “Hey, that looks spiffy!” impulse, though it was less impulse than that we've wanted a pool, but we don't have 30 grand lying around, and we want to be sure we'll actually use a pool enough to warrant popping for something like a Doughboy in a few years, and a house we rented before this one had a giant Intex pool that was nice to have. Yes, I know that was a run-on sentence. no, I'm not going back and fixing it.

Still. While it's cheap it's been a lot of work for him. I've watched as he's sweated (and sometimes slept because sometimes? He's a little odd and gets up at bumfrak o'clock in the morning and goes outside to dig) and I've sat inside and rubbed my tender feets, but when it's done, I'll reap the benefits.

A pool will be good for cross training, you know.

Tomorrow or Thursday the space should be ready for the pool (you know we actually set it up once before, only to discover that our level-looking backyard was five inches higher on one side than the other...we couldn't get the box back into the car to return the pool, so a-leveling he went...) and hopefully by Sunday or Monday it will not only have water in it, be level, but will be warm enough to use.

I'm delicate, you know.

22 July 2010

People must be getting used to seeing me walk around town. I have not been asked if I'm lost in the last few weeks.

Nope.

What I got a few days ago? A kid at the park pointing and saying loudly to his mother, "Look! It's that street walker!"

~sigh~