Sisters

My mom just got home from her annual 'sister's trip.' This time there was one less sister. My Aunt Marie passed away in July. She was the 4th of 6 kids, the second of the 4 sisters. My mom and her sisters are legendary - at least to the family. They are "the sisters" and they are so loved and admired that it is hard to express it in words. The loss of one of them is hard on all of us - but hardest on them.

I actually wrote the above paragraph back in September. I couldn't finish. My Aunt Marie had so many wonderful qualities and was so special that I have not even been able to write about her. Even now I am struggling. Part of the reason is because she raised my three wonderful cousins, Ilsa, Kevin and Kris. They each expressed their love so beautifully and shared so much at her service that there is little I could add.

Toward the end of her life Aunt Marie received many letters from her friends, nieces and nephews. We were able to say goodbye, each in our own way. When someone I love so much passes away,  I find myself wanting to honor them by writing something so profound and beautiful as a  sort of memorialization. I have found that this time it just has to happen in my heart with all the beautiful feelings and memories just gathering up as I remember her each day, each time I see one of the whimsical projects she created, each time I see my own mother, each time a holiday arrives and she is not here.

You left us the example of your unflappable faith, your sense of humor, your inquisitiveness, creativity and love. Aunt Marie, you are missed! No doubt you know this.

Torn between two houses

After 33 years in the same home I have moved. This is big.
The cat has adjusted after hiding under a bed for a week. I'm still working on it.  I've had a ton of emotions over the past few weeks and for the most part I'm really happy. My old house is a mobile home. I bought it with my first husband in 1982 and we put it on a rented lot. I now refer to this as the "Verbena house" - which really sounds quite stately. The Verbena house sits on a lot in "Country River Estates". This name is also a bit misleading. Don't get me wrong, you can see the river from the mobile home court if you walk down the road, across a ditch and up the dike to the levee. I took many walks up there over the years and filled Facebook and Instagram with photos from those walks. I have to say - I miss it. I still tear up at moments. We still own the Verbena house, but it's almost ready to be sold. We've been busy cleaning it up and painting every room. I go there most days of the week to eat my lunch, partly because I can putter around and do little things, but mostly because it is my habit.  As lunch time approaches when I'm at work I feel a bit confused and unsure what to do. My new house is too far from work to go home for lunch and the Verbena house is empty. Lunch time has been sad for me lately. I find myself talking to the house, and the people and the pets who shared it with me through the years. I listen for the voices of my children and the sound of their footsteps when they were small. I think somehow the house has held onto all of my memories and will keep them. I'm slightly afraid that I'll leave it all behind and forget when I leave for the last time. That house has protected me and been my fortress and my sanctuary. That house was home.
I've had people say nasty things about my little mobile home. Through the years there have been a few mean people who have insinuated that me and my kids were "trailer court trash" - based solely on our residence. I have to add here, the trailer park is a nice neighborhood. In 33 years of living there I never had one problem. I miss it.

Our house was not trashy, not dirty. When people came in they often remarked at how nice it was. I was 21 years old when Norm and I decided to buy the double-wide mobile home with only $800 down. He worked hard to support his family and make payments on our home. When our marriage fell apart it became my job to take care of things and I paid the house off myself. I was pretty proud about that. Of course the house had issues - and I was not equipped to maintain it. Once Darrell came into my life my house started to improve little by little. Siding got replaced; windows, carpet, cabinets and new floors were put in. Oh, and paint, lots of paint. There are definitely bonuses that come with marrying a painter.
So, we're in our new house now - the house on Cobblestone Court. It is a pretty house, and just about exactly what we were looking for. The house is the perfect size and the yard is amazing. It is a dream come true for us. We haven't been able to really enjoy it much, since we're still taking care of the Verbena house - but at least once a day one of us will say to the other, "I love you and I love our house."
As Darrell often advertises on his tee-shirts, Life is Good. I'm sure there will be tears when my "trailer"  becomes home for someone new. I'll leave behind some special things on that rented lot as well - Sophie and Corty are buried there, as are several unidentified cats and a goldfish or two. There is a beautiful miniature rose bush, a rose of sharon, a spirea and my favorite, the lilac that grew from a start from the house I grew up in. I have photos of them all, but I wish I could bring them with me. I will miss my trees and also my birds, some who I believe come back year after year just to see me. I miss the way it feels to pull up in front of my home, where my kids grew up and really, where I grew up. Tears are falling again - but I am happy.

Therapy

Ah, here it is, my blogger template. This feels a bit like crawling into a cozy spot I have left empty for awhile. When I don't write, I feel as empty as a blank page that needs to be filled up. I was perusing my own blog this evening, after finally contributing to it this morning. As always happens when I return here after months go by, I read some entries I had completely forgotten. And, as always happens I thought of more things I want to write down. Of course there's a chance I might repeat myself, since I don't remember all the stories I've already told. :)

So, let's talk about fears. I'm afraid to drive sometimes, especially on the freeway in busy traffic. I'm also afraid as a passenger, which is not fun for the driver or for me. Last spring I realized my fear was becoming bigger and causing me to miss out on things. My husband is always more than willing to hop in the car and drive me anywhere I want to go. My fear causes me to choose only to take those trips that I am comfortable taking, the ones without the busy freeway.

I finally decided to conquer the fear once and for all. I called a counselor and began therapy. I learned that a person doesn't have to be in the traumatic event for the traumatic event to impact them. I was diagnosed with PTSD and began the groundwork to prepare for EMDR therapy.

The way this was explained to me is that trauma lives in your amygdala. The reasoning part of your brain (pre-frontal cortex) covers the amygdala and allows people to use common sense. When someone with PTSD encounters a ‘trigger’ they ‘flip their lid’ (that frontal cortex) and the amygdala takes over and stimulates a fight or flight response. My triggers are loud noises, busy traffic, semi trucks and sudden braking - or just everything you encounter on the freeway. At first I was disappointed. I didn't want to talk, I just wanted the magic wand to fix me. After a few sessions I started to realize that there were a lot of contributing factors that I had forgotten.

Trying to pull even the memory of last year's therapy from my clogged up mind is almost as difficult as it was to pull the memories that trip me up in life.

My earliest memories are hard for me to grasp. The overall feeling is that my childhood was a happy one, but spotted with the frustration of always being afraid. I was shy. Even with cousins it would take hours to an entire day for me to warm up and talk, let alone play. Once I was comfortable I had a great time. When I started school it was the same way. I didn't have friends in my class to play with. My best friends, Elece and Traci Hempel, were one and two years behind me and they were making their own friends once they started school. By third grade I'd set my sights on making friends with Gayleen. I walked to her house one day and climbed the steps, knocked lightly on the door. When no one answered (because obviously I'd knocked too lightly and they didn't hear it) I walked home, head down and sad. Soon after, Elece and Traci moved away and I was even more alone.

I'm not sure how we finally became friends, but I know it was a turning point for me. Gayleen wasn't shy and she forced me out of my shell all through those early school years. By middle school she had even cajoled me into running for cheerleader. That same year, just as I was looking forward to the start of school, my brother and nephew were killed by a drunk driver.

I've written about this experience before; waking up to a house filled with my mom's friends cooking and cleaning, learning about Brad and Aaron's deaths. There was a funeral and then I was whisked away by the Hempels on their end of summer vacation. Looking back I realize there were not conversations about what happened to Brad and Aaron. I know I cried and I'm sure my mom hugged me. Once I was back home I remember being with Gayleen and sobbing on the couch. She stayed away, she didn't know what to say or do. School started and life went on.

As I re-lived these experiences in therapy I had a memory that I had buried for over 40 years. I remembered that when I was very young there was a tragic accident that killed the parents of a girl I went to school with. I was very shy, of course, and I saw this girl surrounded by love and friends who were so sad for her loss. As I had laid in my bed I could hear my parents fighting with my brother Brad. During this time Brad was not going to school, partying, and having a hard time with things in general. I had this little thought, what if something happened to Brad? Would I suddenly be surrounded by friends? Please know, even now, this is not something I share easily, as I still feel a tinge of guilt for the thoughts I had as a child. I know that there was a good possibility that something bad could have happened to my brother during that time, which is probably where that thought came from. Maybe the thought was me worrying about him. I know that I never wanted to lose him and wish every day that I could have known him as an adult.

This haunted me for years, although I never spoke of it and tried not to think of it. My counselor explained to me that when we're young, we believe our thoughts have power. I believed it was my fault that Brad and Aaron were killed.

Another strong memory for me was being at the funeral home, seeing Brad and Aaron in their coffins and seeing my dad cry for the first time. I know I was thinking how disappointed my parents would be if they knew about the horrible thought I had had several years earlier. I pushed it away even further.

As life went on my fears were reinforced every time someone I knew was killed in an auto accident, as well as every time I was rear-ended or had a fender bender as an adult.

When my daughter went to college I was sure something awful would happen to her. Instead of imagining her on a beautiful campus, making new friends and learning new things I was having nightmares of her being hurt, or worse.

When my son went to war I was afraid every day. I lived my life in fear. My belief was that horrible things happened to good people, and that horrible things were going to happen to me. My children can attest that I worried too much about them, and truth be told, I still do.

How do we overcome these fears? We try imagining ourselves in our "safe place" when things get scary, we use scents or other memories to push the fear away. We try manifesting wonderful things with our thoughts in the hope that those things will come true. (I guess we still believe our thoughts have powers.)

One year ago I thought I'd kicked the fear and I know that I have been better. Unfortunately I haven't been on any trips to Seattle to test the success of my therapy. This weekend I am faced with the decision of whether or not to go to Spokane for a funeral. I am trying to not let my fear dictate my decision. There are other factors to consider, but can I trust myself to not look for excuses to just avoid dealing with my fears?

I'll get back to you.

In my heart, this car is mine.

My Buick came home yesterday, but not to stay. Someone else was able to do what I never could; return my Buick to the beauty it deserved to be. I loved it, but my resources were limited so the love I had for the car never showed in it's care or preservation.
I was 17 years old on a bright spring day back in 1978. For some reason I had walked to school that day and when I got home I noticed my 1964 Pontiac was not in the driveway. In its place was a 1966 Buick Skylark Gran Sport. I was told it had belonged to Gladys Breed. Mrs. Breed was a retired school teacher who had actually been Mom's 7th grade teacher. The car had been special ordered from the factory and was just like new. In fact, the back seat had never been sat in.
At first I was a little bit sad that Dad had sold my car (with my new 8-track tape deck) without telling me. But then I drove the Buick.
I didn't need the tape deck, as I had a perfectly fine AM/FM radio in my car and the 445 Wildcat under the hood. I was a happy and lucky girl!
I drove the car the short trip back and forth to school for the remainder of the year. The following fall I moved to Spokane to attend Spokane Falls Community College. I lived right on Spokane Falls Boulevard, so my Buick still didn't have much of a commute to get me to and from school.
Going home to Wilbur on the weekends was the furthest I ever drove my car. I loved knowing that I could pass another car on the highway and never worry if I had time to get around it. I had a fast car.
The next year I got married and the Buick and I moved to Kennewick. I still drove it daily until the spring of 1980 when I was hit head on by a young man who had just bought his car that day. I was pregnant with my first child and a bit shaken up, but my car kept me safe. In fact, it didn't even move. I was able to drive it so we took it to Wilbur to show my dad. The car looked fine, other than the driver's side bumper being smashed. Even so, I was told it was a total loss, but dad still got it fixed for me.
Once I had it back in Kennewick I'm not sure what happened. I had another child in 1983 and the Buick started needing more work than we could afford. It sat a lot.
At some point in the 80s I took the Buick to Wilbur and parked it in my parent's garage. I think it was after 1986 because that is when my dad passed away and I know dad would have worked on the Buick if he'd still been alive.
In 1996 my mom had to sell the old house so I got a flat bed trailer and hauled the Buick back to Kennewick. Anna was getting her driver's license so I was determined to fix the Buick up for her to drive. I was divorced by this time and didn't have ready cash for car repairs. I took a loan from my 401k and had Charlie's Automotive get the car running. I can't remember what all they did, but I know they replaced the starter and a few other things. I think I spent about $1000. Anna drove the Buick all through her high school years, but we had to get her something more dependable and economical when she went to college in Bellingham.
By this time, Noah had his license, but decided he wanted a cowboy limousine that was for sale in Wilbur instead, so the Buick sat for a few more years.
In 2002 Noah joined the Marine Corps and in 2003 he went for his first tour to Iraq. Noah gave me his power of attorney and asked me to use his combat pay to fix up the Buick. He wanted it all finished when he got out of the Corps so it could be his car. His phone calls  home were filled with questions about the progress on the car. Getting the Buick fixed was a good project for a worried mom and thinking about it was a good distraction for a young man in a war zone.
We got the engine rebuilt in Pasco, and they did a wonderful job. The transmission was re-built at Astley's in Kennewick, who kindly gave a discount for a Marine at war. When the engine was ready, Noah's friend Jeremy took charge of putting it back into the car. Darrell soda blasted it and then we had the body worked on and primed. I don't remember where we took it for the body work, but now I've heard it wasn't the best work. We were well on our way to finally fixing the Buick all up when Noah finished his second tour. He got married and bought a car in San Diego while he was working at the base in Camp Pendleton. Once the combat pay stopped, so did the work on the Buick. Sadly, I don't think Noah ever got to really drive it after sinking over $5000 into it.
I would often go out to my driveway and sit in it, wishing I could finish the work and give Noah back his investment so I could drive it again. I know the car means almost as much to him as it does to me.

After several years Noah needed the money so he sold the car to Jeremy, who had wanted it for some time. I wanted to buy it from Noah then, but I had been laid off from my job and money was tight. I always hoped that I could buy it back someday, but eventually Jeremy sold it  and I didn't hear about it until it was too late. It wasn't meant to be and I don't think it would have turned out so great if I'd been the one trying to get it done.
A couple weeks ago pictures of the Buick were sent to me and I cried. It was beautiful, and for that I was happy, but I was so sad that it wasn't me who had done it. I know it's silly to cry over a car and I should be happy for my memories and the joy I had when Dad gave me the Buick, but I can't stop feeling that it belongs with me.
The man who fixed it up so beautifully is Dennis Sandmeier. He was kind enough yesterday to drive the Buick over here so I could see it "in person" and he even let me drive it! What memories washed over me as I drove around the block, what a bittersweet experience. As I pulled back into my driveway in the Buick, Darrell said "honey, you look good in there." My reply was, "Well I should, it's my car." I'm so glad the Buick is fixed up, and I so selfishly wish it belonged to me. I wish I was in a position right now to buy it, but there are other things more important for our golden years - like a new home and retirement funds. I know my dad wouldn't want me feeling so bad about the car and oh gosh, he would be so happy to see it all shiny and pretty again. I can just see the grin on his face - the one he got whenever he saw a great car. When Dennis said he would drive the car over for me to see, he said he hoped I would approve of the restoration he'd done.
Dad and I approve.

A work in progress

I was a grown-up in my twenties. I was a wife and the mother of two small children. I did all the tasks expected of me - cooked the meals, did the grocery shopping, cleaned the house and cared for my family. I was a good mother. I read to my kids and played with them, took them to the doctor when they were  sick and stayed with them at the hospital when they had to be admitted. I enrolled them into pre-school at the appropriate times and took them to church. I taught Sunday school, was a Brownie leader and made sure my kids had Christmas stockings, Easter baskets, egg hunts, Halloween costumes, birthday parties and plenty of parades. I had a lot of other mommy friends with children for mine to play with. I had Home Interior and Tupperware parties and went to potlucks. We were a family. I was just a normal wife and mother.
When I was thirty years old I got a part-time job at the Tri-City Herald that eventually became a full-time position with a lot of responsibility. My husband thought I was changing, and he was right. I tried to hold my little family together by finally reaching out for help. I went to my friends, my pastor, a counselor and Al-Anon. I bought books and tried to force my husband to read them. I took the kids to Young Marines and music lessons and wrote in journals. I filled these books with my disappointments and heartaches and some little pops of happiness. It was all to no avail. I decided I wanted more for myself and for my kids. I wanted more for my husband, but I knew he had to make those changes for himself. The marriage ended.

I became a child again. Maybe this statement is not completely true or fair, as I know I still tried to be a good mother. I did my best - most of the time. The honest thing that anyone can admit in life is that they made mistakes. I made mine. Looking back, I will say that I have regrets. There are things I would do differently given the chance.
I had married so young that I didn't have a clue about dating, or relationships with men. The first man that asked me out was from my church and his parents set it up. He was nice, 13 years older than I was with a big old house and a good job. I found myself in a relationship before I really even thought about it. He was just the next Mr. Right. Or was he? He seemed to have made up his mind about me, so I tried to be in love. After a few months and the intervention of a good friend I realized I was just trying to create my little dream of a perfect life - with this man who was nice, but not the right one for me.
The next Prince Charming candidate lived across the state. I was introduced to him by my friend who rescued me from Mr. Right. My son liked him because he'd been in the Army and had cool stuff. Honestly, I'm not sure why I liked him except he was fun, and mostly - far away. I convinced myself I was in love and tried to make him feel the same. After more than 2 years, I ended it (or so I told myself). The truth is - he didn't love me. I can easily see now that he, while being a nice man - was not the man for me.
Next came a series of mistakes in my search for love. My children were grown and busy with their own lives and activities. I had my friends and my job and tried to grow up again. I guess I didn't really know what that would look like for me. Looking back I worry that my kids needed more from me during these years than I gave them. They have graciously let me off the hook every time I suggest this, but in my heart I know I should have and could have been more present in their lives. (Whether they let on that they needed me or not)
I'd like to think I'm grown up again, but I know there are moments when I'm not, and perhaps that is true of everyone. I found the love of my life and we have a good marriage. I have a job and a cat and I hear from my very adult children a few times each week. I still worry about them and try to mother them when they let me. I wonder sometimes what things are still ahead of me. I hope I can make the most of my choices and continue to learn from my mistakes.
Today is a lovely day and I'm going to go out and do my best.