January 31: Little Victories

One lesson I am continually learning in life is the power of surrender. It’s a simple little word, isn't it? Surrender? But to do so involves letting go of control, of the illusion of control. If we’re talking about where to eat dinner, surrender is an easy thing. Sure – you pick. Go for it. If we’re talking about protecting our children, surrender sounds like an impossibility. But the truth is that surrender is important whether we’re talking food or dependents. It is equally valuable and equally powerful.

 

“Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.”  - Eckhart Tolle

 

Because of events involving my daughter and my ex-husband. I’m six years into a journey I wouldn't have chosen in my most demented nightmares, but am still managing to not just survive, but evolve and at times thrive within. It hasn't always been easy.

 

Today I had a meeting that I would have rather not attended. I did shed a few frustrated tears as my mind pushed against the necessity of me hanging out with my ex and a handful of professionals. The topic was his desires versus my daughter’s needs as overseen by the State of Iowa. In the past, preparation for this meeting would have involved conversations with a therapist, my friends, my family, co-workers. Lots of people. I’d have attended the actual meeting, trying not to be physically ill from my nerves and anxiety. Taken a shower afterwards to wash it away. Then a re-hash of the meeting with the aforementioned support group I am blessed to have. That is a whole lot of power to give to a few hours, isn't it?

 

My evolution of surrender has taught me to not do any of the above. I try not to “hype” the event beforehand (but did ask my FB community for good vibes). I go to the meeting. I leave the meeting. I leave the meeting there. Done deal. It doesn’t warrant an energy outletting of any magnitude. It’s a blip on my radar. A big(ger) one. But just a blip. Letting it go without giving it anything else is the most powerful thing I can do for myself. It may sound easy. It hasn't been for me.

 

If I were writing a course or helping a friend learn  how to get through a difficult life experience, it would involve a series of nuanced lessons. Things that are subtle but incredibly effective. A few examples?

 

Vulnerability is more powerful than stoicism. It’s ok to have hard days and to give them no more or no less than they deserve. Our words create realities and give power, and thus both our thoughts and words should be carefully regarded and evaluated. Give your energy to love and fear dies from a lack of focus.

 

It’s trite to say that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger. But it is true.

 

At the beginning of this particular journey, a dear friend shared this song with me. I remember at the time mentally rejecting it with every ounce of my being. Wanting sweeping victories. Wham Bam Boom victories. Little victories? Little? Really? No. I wanted the A-bomb, baby.

 

It turns out that as with most things in life, it mostly is the little stuff that matters. Every time I surrender to an emotion, an event, a reality, I am becoming more me. More of a me that I am proud to be.

 

Don’t knock the little. It’s big.

Matt Nathanson - Little Victories

January 30: Louis

My work days are often hectic. Here's a typical day in the life:

• I wake up to the same alarm clock I've had since I was 17. I am not a morning person.
• Get ready. 
• Wake Aria. Wake her again. Third time's a charm. 
• Tickle fest.
• Help Aria get ready. This includes no less than three reminders to brush her teeth or her hair. Broken. Record. 
• Make her breakfast. 
• While she’s eating breakfast, pack her school lunch (which I intended to pack the night before but forgot, again). Remind her to eat. I said eat. Please eat. 
• Make a cuppa to go (if I'm on top of things). These are good days when this bullet point happens. Good, good days.
• Throw everything together and rush her out the door (invariably singing Hit the Road Jack, unless it's super cold. Then it's Baby, It's Cold Outside). 
• Drop her at a friend’s home before school, leaving with a kissing hand. Do you know The Kissing Hand book? If you have kids or someone you just love being near, give it a read. It's lovely. 
• Buzz into the box (my work - where I drive over 10,000 speed bumps in the parking ramp which takes forever to navigate through). 
• Attend a bevy of meetings and do all that my job entails. Most days the pace is frantic enough that lunch is eaten at my desk while on a call. 
• Go over the 10,000 speed bumps in the parking ramp.  Rush to Aria. 
• Make dinner. 
• Write my blog. This bullet point makes me smile. It's kinda new.
• Eat dinner.
• Do dishes. 
• Get Aria bathed and help with her hair. It's a project. If you have a child with curly, snaggle-prone hair you understand that this is an effort. And not a fun one. We have a Knot Genie, people, and we use it well. Along with pounds of leave-in conditioners.
• Read stories.
• Get Aria a snack. She's a nighttime eater. Hobbits have elevenses. Aria has second dinner. I can fight it or I can fight her not sleeping as her stomach rumbles. No brainer.
• Give her her nightly massage (it’s hard to be Aria). 
• Put her to sleep. Yes, I snuggle her until she falls asleep often. Yes, I stare at her sleeping form. It's rare, precious time. Don't judge. 
• Do laundry / clean the house / sort the mail / yada yada. 
• Watch something on Netflix (while frolicking on the elliptical if I’m being disciplined). 
• Shower. 
• Read a book. 
• Crash.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I’m sure many of you can relate.

One of my very favorite things about this song is the pace it sets. Over three delicious minutes in, Louis starts singing. In a world that is all fast food and instant messaging, the fine art of intent, of slow delivery and letting something wash over us in its own time, is often lost on us. 

This song is like champagne. It makes me warm and turns my blood to honey. It slows my breathing. It’s intoxicating, and precisely what I need after a typical day in the life.

Take a deep breath. Give it a listen. Take another deep breath. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Oscar Peterson & Louis Armstrong - You Go To My Head

January 29: Freshman Talent Show

At Cornell, the Freshman always put on a talent show for the other students. It’s tradition. The show is held in King Chapel (where I auditioned for my scholarship). The social groups sit together and loudly heckle and praise the performers. (Cornell has social groups rather than nationally affiliated frats or sororities).

My freshman year I performed in the show with the choir. We sang The Carpenter’s Close to You. It was hot. I still recall a group of Newts draped over the balcony where we exited the stage yelling at us and holding up numbers as they judged us. It was sheer terror meets exhilaration.

My sophomore year, a few boys got together and performed this song. Eddie Vedder is another of my musical loves. You'll hear more of his this year. With Pearl Jam. Solo. With friends on compilations. I have a pretty strong Eddie fetish. 

Interesting tidbit: Did you know Chris Cornell wrote the song and intended to sing the part Eddie's known for, but couldn't hit the low notes? At rehearsal, Eddie took over the mic and owned that song. It became the duet we all know and love today, featuring two of my favorite performers of the 90s.

Temple of the Dog - Hunger Strike

January 28: Bittersweet

What feels like a lifetime ago, I spent a few days in the mountains outside Nederland, CO, in a little solar powered cabin with someone I used to love. It was late spring so there was still snow on the ground. The cabin had this little loft with a mattress that served as the bedroom. I don’t remember much else about that cabin, because this was my favorite spot. We’d sit perched on that mattress looking out a little window seeking mountain lions or deer or any sort of wildlife that wanted to pass by. It was an excuse to be close, to snuggle and not go farther than arm’s length from each other. 

If we all have a love language, touch is mine. Words are remembered fondly. Gifts are appreciated. Touch is divine. It is no wonder a tiny loft would be my favorite place to pass my time with someone I loved.

Occasionally we’d leave to grab a coffee at a shop run from a train car. We rode bikes around Boulder trails. We hiked around the cabin and picked out a few rocks to bring home as reminders of our trip. I still have one of those rocks in my garden. 

I haven’t had the heart to toss it out. There were many memories made on that trip, but it’s the loft that calls to my heart over the years.

"The day he took this picture
he loved me

And I don't know how to show you 
what I mean...Except to say
that I don't look like this
anymore

This is how I used to look
when he loved
me"
- Merrit Malloy

As we descended the mountain on our drive home to Iowa, we listed to the Dirt Floor album. It was a poignant drive back to our waiting realities. 

This is one of those songs that can still bring tears to my eyes and a smile to my heart. Bittersweet.

Chris Whitley - Accordingly

January 27: Don't Worry....

Today was cold. Bloody cold. Polar vortex is not a phrase I had heard before this winter, but it’s become the “Axis of Evil” of the season in the Midwest. Last week, temperatures were higher than today, but school was cancelled for one day. Thus, my daughter woke up this morning thinking school would be delayed, at minimum. The school gods did not buy into this thinking. We had a normal school day.

Aria’s reaction upon hearing the news this morning (accompanied by our nemesis, the alarm clock beep)? Heartbreak. Instant tears. Followed closely by anger. Then acceptance. Like a mini grieving cycle on speed. She surrendered and spent the day at school, bless her heart.

This is the song we sing together when we need to remember to be gentle with ourselves. It soothes us, and eventually brings a smile, even during the worst moments. This is a day worthy of a little self soothing. 

Bob Marley - Three Little Birds

January 26: Band Geeks - Unite!

I was seeking confirmation of an idiom recently, and stumbled upon this gem: “Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.” I immediately thought, “..and drive in movies.” Instantly, I was brought back to late elementary and middle school.

Mr. Brown was our band instructor. He was excellence personified. I chose the flute in 5^th grade. I bought a used open holed flute at Mr. Brown’s recommendation (because it affords the opportunity to create tonal differences and is used by professionals as opposed to plateau models with closed holes, naturally). I polished and loved that flute. I still have it to this day. I spent hours and hours practicing in my room, wanting to honor my teacher’s talent by delivering my very best. He always told me “If you were any sharper, you’d have to go to college.” It made me feel special rather than tonally challenged.

Our little school had a beautifully involved student body. We had a marching band for football season. We’d practice on the streets of Pomeroy and although we had incredibly basic formations, we walked and re-walked those streets around the school -nsuring our feet were in sync and in our line you could only see the person next to you. The football players marched with the band at half time. It was that kind of town.

I played my flute in various competitions, memorizing songs that would best showcase my budding talents. Concerned they weren't advanced enough to wow a judge. Worried I’d never get them memorized in time. Having ample time on my hands to play them again and again until they became muscle memory for my fingertips over those open holes. We all rode on buses to these events, and the wait in the hallways before performing was always intense. The ride home was often spent asleep, a product of an adrenaline rush faded into glory.

One of my favorite band memories was playing at home basketball games. The flute was incredibly superfluous in our school’s song. And in pep band, in general. It was one of the rare times I wished I played a brass instrument. The camaraderie of the band was such a warm culture. The bleachers under your butt. The entire town filling the stands and cheering on the Cyclones. The smell of floor wax. Popcorn concessions and soda served in styrofoam cups. Sneaking peaks at neighboring town’s boys in the halls.

But I digress….back to the band. The music lover in me found such joy in my band days, both at Pomeroy and Belle Plaine (where I moved at 15). Today, I raise a toast to Mr. Brown (and Mr. Schlesselman who inherited me in the move).

Band geeks – unite!

The Champs - Tequila

January 25: New Gems

One of my greatest delights in life is to discover new music. They say change is the only constant, and while that may be true, life can at times feel uninspired. That may be the January blues talking. Get back to me in Spring for a pulse check…

We live in an era where we seem to recycle even our entertainment. Movies. Music. Television. I’d rather watch The West Wing on Netflix than anything current on TV. Except Jon Stewart. I adore him. Google "remakes in 2015" – I dare you. It reads like my youth. Even fashion recycles itself. We are in the 80s again. I see Flashdance worthy attire at work often. Few mullets, however, thank heavens.

There are still moments of brilliance. It’s why listening to a new artist who piques my interest is such a rare treat.

Last night, a friend shared Pink Martini with me. Music is powerful. It can stir up feelings inside us. It can transport us to a moment in time, or help us mentally escape our present. Did I mention I’m a bit stir crazy of late? One too many polar vortexes, perhaps?

Pink Martini feels like spring in Paris to me. Seated at a sidewalk table in a bistro. Noshing a decadent pastry with a cup of café blacker than the night. People watching. Glad I don’t have a little dog as I watch the passerby’s step in their poo.

Today I’m sitting in a beam of sunlight in my kitchen nook, sipping coffee, listening to Pink Martini and flipping through Jung’s catalog dreaming of planting my spring garden. It’s not Paris, but it’s wonderful.

Pink Martini - Hang On Little Tomato

January 24: The Basics

We survived another arctic blast. I do my very best to not complain about the weather. I live in Iowa. It’s winter. It’s supposed to be cold. As we march toward February, I always wish I had budgeted for a tropical vacation right about now. I look really good with an umbrella drink in hand. Sadly, it’s not in the cards this year.

 I ducked out for lunch to snag a salad from Palmer’s, a local deli addiction. Winter makes me feel furtive. I hunker down at home, and when I emerge from my nest, I do so buried in layers of clothing. I hunch my shoulders. I become compact in an effort to embrace my own body heat. Winter makes me feel smaller. Like a pop-up camper all folded up and awaiting summer expansion and adventures.

 In my car on the way back from the salad heist, I caught this little ditty on the radio. Although Presence is my favorite Zeppelin album (I am in the minority with that pick, I suspect), this song is my favorite of all their songs. It makes me happy.

Whatever yields happy is not wrong on a cold winter day. I threw in some homemade beef and noodles (yes, I made the noodles, too) with whiskey glazed carrots for dinner. Carrots are always happier when pared with whiskey, I find. So am I, coincidentally.

Indulge in a little Rock 101 with me, won’t you?

Led Zeppelin - Ramble On

January 23: Iowa Pride

My state is being wooed today in the media. It’s kind of nice to see Iowa mentioned outside a caucus year by the national media. Don’t worry – I won’t let it go to my head.

 Apparently we are:

Wealthy:

Today Article - Living Rich in Iowa

Hip:

Washington Post Article - Why Iowa Rules

And just plain awesome. There is no national article I can cite for this claim. It’s just true.

The other story in the news today is about Justin Bieber. Breathe deep, people. I, Andrea, solemnly swear I will not share a song by Justin. Ever. Pinky promise.

I thought I’d introduce another musician from Iowa to you today. If you are ever in the Des Moines area, make an effort to hear Chad live at The Grapevine, where he often performs with the talented Bonita Crowe. It’s a wonderful venue. Live music is not listed in the Post’s top 10. For me it’s a highlight of my town.

Bonus: It's Chad's 40th birthday today, and he's celebrating in Memphis where he is performing, and apparently performed a few songs at Sun Studio. Happy birthday to you, Chad! 

Chad Elliott – Wide Open Road

January 22: ...and All That Jazz

I recently went to a dueling piano bar to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I had to leave just as the music started (Cinderella, stroke of midnight, er, 8, and all that). I caught the opening number, which was Great Balls of Fire, served up with the precise level of bawdiness required at a piano bar. Perfect!

The performers requested audience choice for their second number. A young little kitten called out, “Wrecking Ball,” which other than video imagery that is forever burned into my brain is a great song. But when I think of pianos and singing, I’m more apt to envision Billy Joel or old school jazz. The audience was generally a decade or two younger than me. I exited stage left.

I have always had immense respect for stage performers on any scale. I went to Cornell on a vocal scholarship, but was certainly not a tremendous performer. I applied on a fluke and trembled like a leaf on the stage of King Chapel. I was stunned and honored they chose me. When I am old and gray, I’ll be proud that I dared to walk onto that stage. It was a big deal for 17 year-old me. It would be a big deal if I did it today.

My assigned vocal professor at Cornell was not impressed with me. She made it blatantly clear she could not believe they had wasted scholarship money on me. To her defense, my freshman year was entirely more about the social lessons of college rather than the academic pursuits. 7:30 a.m. came incredibly early for lessons after a night on the town. (OK - yes, I was at the bar.). She had a beautiful operatic voice and I was church and choir experienced from a small town. I had never had a formal vocal lesson. I sang because I loved to sing. I had an immense propensity to want to please and some good basic vocal chords. Rather than work with me, she shamed me.

She really didn’t deserve much esteem or a second thought. But she was the first person to “judge” my voice, which I had always thought of as a strength. She found me lacking. Her voice became the one in my head whenever I sang. I heard all my flaws and lost the sheer joy of the song. I have several amazing examples of teachers who touched my life. This is the only negative one I’ll ever mention, and it’s not with blame for her. She had an opinion and she shared it. She did not see it as her job to teach me so much as be burdened by me. It does speak to the power of influence, teachers. Be kind. Always. Not everyone will be your star, but many want to shine.

I lost my confidence to sing in front of others. I became a shower singer. The loudest in a chorus but not prone to want anything to do with a solo. Not a marquis singer. Not a risk taker.

Here’s the thing: Gosh I’ve always secretly wanted to be on a stage. Not just any stage. I wanted to wear a gorgeous dress cut down to there and some devil-may-care red lipstick. I wanted a big glossy piano that I could slink across, and a trumpet player I could harmlessly flirt with onstage. A few dance steps here and there. I wanted to sing jazz. I wanted to purr into an old school microphone. I wanted to be soul sisters with Billie, Sarah, Etta, Rosemary and Ella.

I have so, so many jazz favorites I’d love to share with you. You'll likely hear my would-be soul sisters in the coming weeks. Tonight, I wanted to share this little ditty. It’s fresh and feisty, the way I like my jazz. And it’s commonly heard in my shower. You should hear the acoustics in there!

Dave's True Story - Can't Get You Out of My System

January 21: Forbidden Fruit

Sharing life moments in our world. Small ones - but they are the ones that count. I promise. Tonight I let Aria (age 10) try a Twinkie for the first time. Someone at school told her she hadn't lived until she had eaten one. It made her curious. So I acquiesced. We talked about the shelf life of a Twinkie. We talked about why that’s not a great example of healthy eating, but that diet is all about balance so it’s ok to have a guilty pleasure now and again. Yada yada. We bought a 2 pack of Twinkies last night at the store.

 I have a strong belief that we crave what is made forbidden to us. We’ll actually mentally elevate the taboo and make it better than it is in reality if told we cannot have it. I did not like giving Aria a Twinkie. Not at all. But more so, I want her to learn freedom of experience. Personal choice. Informed decision. Free will.

 Yes, I know it was a Twinkie. It wasn't a hot burner, or her first crush breaking her heart. It wasn't the bong being passed at her first college party where I’m not there to guide her. I get it. But the principal stands, regardless of the forbidden fruit. I yielded to trust. I let go of control.

We read all the time as parents that we need to give our kids opportunities to fail. To fall down. To bruise a knee. We nod our heads and heartily agree because our own knees were so often bruised in our youth. We walked home from friends at dusk, for heaven’s sake. We were risk takers. Big time. We relate to this.

 But then we proceed to put bumpers in every bowling alley, bubble wrap sharp edges, put all our crystal on the highest shelves even our own arm span cannot reach without a step stool, and spray our backyards with pesticide lest a mosquito bring the whole thing down like a house of cards. We are control freaks, trying to make safe a world that is nearly entirely out of our control.

 No part of me is afraid that my foodie child (who asked for stuffed artichokes and chicken breasts for her 2^nd, yes - 2^nd, birthday) is going to succumb to preservative fever.  She managed to eat the first Twinkie. When I asked if she wanted the second, she gracious declined and offered it to me. It is sitting in the kitchen where my cats are circling it as though it were a rare breed of bird brought into the house to nest. It will be in the trash within the hour. With perhaps a claw mark or two indented upon its spongy surface.

Mystery solved. Aria thinks the kid at school has never had my chocolate cloud cake or they’d understand real living.

Remind me of this post when she wants to do the next thing that’s outside my comfort zone, will you please? It’s good to stretch those boundaries. One Twinkie at a time.

PS – this song doesn't really mesh with Aria trying a Twinkie. But it is about addiction. And it is fabulous. So there.

Jane's Addiction - Jane Says

January 20: Num

There really isn't a tale to be told with this song. Sometimes you just want to get a bit dirty. This song is a soul seducer.

Ben Harper? Dear sweet baby Jesus in his cradle. Unbridled talent. Musical range in all the right genres. Deeply spiritual. Lyrics that burn themselves into your heart. 

You’ll be seeing more of Ben this year. I like to keep him close at hand. I don’t have a little pin with his face on it (a la A Boy Named Simon), but I might consider it. He’s worthy. 

Ben Harper - Whipping Boy

January 19: Waveland Addition Plot 18

I am converting one of the bedrooms on my second floor into a home office, moving my desk down from the 3^rd floor which is not centrally heated/cooled. In the process, I’m trying to filter through my desk and purge. There is simple purging, like the junk drawer where you throw out broken rubber bands and dead batteries. And then there is complex purging, where each item triggers a memory or requires review before being sorted. The office is a complex purge.

I was filtering through my (sadly expired) passport and other important documents, and happened upon my home’s title work. I never looked it over when I bought the house. Mid-divorce, I just threw it into a drawer and was pleased as punch to have closed my loan. Yesterday I took a little time to peak into the lives of the previous owners of the Waveland Addition Plot 18.

When the Waveland Addition was commenced, it was on the edge of Des Moines, the cusp of urban and rural. Now I’m in what is considered Des Moines West, with a bevy of suburbs continuing miles further west of my home. In 1913 when the lot was plotted, I was the frontier, baby. I found an ad on the back of the original title touting the charm of my ‘hood and its delightful new school, Hubbell, where my daughter attends 4^th grade today after its 100^th year celebration.

  

The original plot was purchased in 1913 by Ms. Julia Kennedy. There were instructions on the title that she must build a home worth $2,500 at minimum on the property and it needed to be X feet from the street. I love the expansive nature of this basic guideline. In today’s subdivisions, you can only have one of six home models, park 1.5 cars in the garage only (never on the street), and have a blue or brown door to identify your home from your neighbors. Not red. Red is outside the allowable color pallet the association will enforce. Julia had free reign with her budget to dream up whatever home suited her fancy.

Sadly, she didn’t build on my land. She sold it to E.W. and Harriet Dobbs, who built my Craftsman, finishing title on it in May 1916. Isn't it a charmer?

Julia was the last single woman to own this space until June 2006 when I took possession. I am the 7^th owner on file of my 1916 Craftsman. The two previous owners ended their ownership of my home in divorce. I moved here as a shelter from the storm of my own divorce.

Rather than being a place of broken dreams I’d leave behind, this home has been a cocoon for me. I took my own broken dreams and wishes for “living truth” and found myself at Plot 18. If you have ever lived a life that wasn't true to yourself, that felt like faking it, or wearing clothes that never ever fit, or simply felt like your outward facing self was a lie to what hid neglected within, you get why I wished to live my truth. The greatest lies are told in silence to ourselves. That I could stick it out in my marriage. That being so incredibly lonely in a marriage was at all copacetic. That my daughter needed married parents more than an example of true love (of self in this instance) to base her self worth and future upon. As I mentioned in a previous post, I didn't file for my divorce. I just rejoiced after the fact.

Many truths I discovered early on following my divorce were incredibly painful. Sometimes when the veil drops, the reality is quite ugly to accept. The journey is still underway, and nothing is certain. But I’m beyond grateful to tell you that I am more me, more truth, than I have ever been. And my world has never been more lush with blessings, 1916 Craftsman and all.

Move day: July 4^th weekend, 2006. Do you see the hope in my eyes? The joy in Aria? That it’s move day and I’m in a dress and flipflops? I told you I was a dress girl. 

This house has been a blessing for us. I’m so grateful to have stumbled upon Plot 18.

This song feels like my world before the move. Pre-divorce. It is a sharp contrast to the walls I live within now. It is one of those songs that makes me wish I could play guitar and write lyrics half so beautiful as Jackson's. It is a favorite.

Jackson Browne - In the Shape of a Heart

January 18: An Ode to Friendship

Today’s plans were thwarted by the weather. A dear high school friend was going to come to town and play with me. Man plans. God laughs. I know, I know. It’s winter in Iowa. This makes all things theoretical rather than written in pen. We’ll rally another day.

I moved to Belle Plaine the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school. My stepfather was relocated to a new church there. If you were to ask me about that experience, my knee jerk reaction would be to say it was a difficult move, but that I made a few wonderful friends and memories. High school was not easy for me for a variety of reasons.

I think, however, part of journaling (or in my case blogging) is to take those broad brush strokes and give them definition. I am finding that the more I connect with moments rather than vast impressions, I had real beauty surrounding me. I just tended to focus on the ugly parts of my world and give them too much power. My life is made up of moments, good and bad. I won’t gild the ugly, but I also am learning to not give what hurt or was hard any more power than what charmed me.

{Was there any man wiser than Bob Ross? Perhaps, but we didn’t have cable growing up, so if it wasn't on PBS, it didn't exist in my world. Meaning Mr. Rogers and Bob Ross are my shining examples of grace and wisdom. Not bad company to keep.}

Since I can’t spend today with Stacey, I thought I’d share some of the essence of my memories with her, and because of her. Stacey lived in a small town outside of Belle Plaine. Her home felt like a home, filled with lots of siblings, kitchen smells and love. In Belle Plaine, our parsonage was a prefab house that was always filled with the sound of train whistles and gusting winds. My mom worked nights at the nursing home and slept during the day. My sister had moved to my dad’s by then. My stepfather wasn't around and I had a younger stepbrother but so few memories of seeing him in that house that I wonder where he might have been. He wasn't in the same orbit as me. All of this made Stacey’s home feel like the pinnacle of what a “family” is supposed to represent. From my vantage point, her home was an oasis.

We spent the summer between junior and senior year working in the Amanas as waitresses. It was a 30 or 45 minute drive for us to get to work, but the tips were huge coin to high school girls whose local job options were minimum wage, at best. The restaurant made us buy these brown floral Little House on the Prairie inspired dresses.  We also had white frilly bonnets. I could not make this stuff up. (Stacey – you will be glad to know I have no photos of us in those uniforms. You are welcome.)

That summer found us all over Iowa in a navy blue bug convertible. One day, we ditched work on a whim and did a drive-through tour of my Pomeroy stomping grounds. We visited Stacey’s grandma. We went to Adventureland (Des Moines’ smaller version of a Six Flags). We had an addiction to Chi Chi's Mexican Restaurant (which we drove to Cedar Rapids to experience) that I cannot explain with my 2014 taste buds. We were mildly boy crazy, which I blame upon youth, hormones and fish bowl living in a small town with little else to do. We listened to music and ate pizza and dreamed dreams of a world bigger than our current horizons.

Stacey went to college in Colorado. I went to Cornell. I think we were both anxious to pave new roads and gain worldly experiences beyond our origins. There wasn't the technology then that there is today to keep us connected. I have to thank Facebook for bringing her back into my world. It had been roughly 20 years since our youthful adventures. In about two minutes of conversation, those years disappeared. We are making new memories, and for that I am beyond grateful. 

Stacey is my soul sister. It is such a blessing to share snippets of this era of my life with her. Winter weather be darned.

Although Peter Gabriel’s So soundtrack was most often in our cars’ tape decks, it is this song that feels like my friendship with Stacey. She is sunshine for the soul.

And although I don’t have a Little House via the Amanas photo to share, I do have this gem from our Adventureland day circa 1990. Love to you, dear friend. 

The Sundays - Summertime

January 17: Birth of a Foodie

I adore crafting a meal, but my theory is that cooking dinner at home on Fridays should be illegal. I mean, I’m not going to come into your home and arrest you if you are cooking. But I may crash at your place and nosh your food, depending what’s on the menu.

 

Anyone else wiped out after the work week? My kitchen is for decoration only today. I hope it doesn’t get lonely.

 

Before the (so not high art) pizza is delivered tonight, I thought I’d wax poetic about my first foodie experience. We have established I was raised in a small town. We did not have a restaurant in town. We did have Kelly’s Café in Jolley (a few miles away) that had Friday night fish fries during Lent. We weren't Catholic but we sure ate their fish. It was an immense treat for our family to go anywhere to eat, because it involved both travel and money of which both were precious and rare concepts in my childhood.

 

I have always loved food, but more than eating, I love the art of food. Presentation. Various cuisines from other cultures. Fusing flavors to give taste buds a workout. Dinner by candle light casting the world in glamorous hues.  All of this love was in theory until Cornell. You see, at college, I met a boy. We spent years together before parting ways. He was from Gaza and worldly beyond my incredibly limited experiences. He also had an appetite for living that was contagious. He was an introduction to hedonism – I studied well.

 

My freshman year, I got a handful of fancy (to me) dresses, and wore them to the high end restaurants of Cedar Rapids and Iowa City, the largest cities around Mount Vernon. Go ahead – ooooohhhhh and aaaaahhhhh at that imagery. It’s an interesting reflection to realize that my wardrobe evolution was in sync with my food journey. I loved donning a knock-out dress and pair of heels and test driving being a woman. (OK – in hind sight my heavens I was a little girl of 18 / 19, but at the time, watch out world!).

 

Our favorite restaurant was Hemmingway’s, which was the in-house restaurant at the Collins Plaza at the time. Lots of dark wood paneling, candles, jazz music and dimmed lights. You know how pearls can illuminate a woman’s neck and décolletage? Hemmingway’s lighting illuminated me. I cannot explain it in any other way. I glowed there, as though lit from within.

 

I can still get giddy recalling the presentation of the meal. Every course I ordered was prepared tableside. The Caesar salad dressing was made to order. I was not couth or explorative enough to handle adding any anchovies but the mere act of them asking how much garlic and then tossing that salad just for me was epic. I always chose the Steak Diane for my main course as that also was prepared tableside. And with wine, people. Wine. In. The. Sauce. Dessert was bananas foster, served - you guessed it – tableside. When they would light it up, my heart spired through the ceiling. It wowed me. I have always been enamored with firelight – candles, fireplaces, those little burners they place under buffet trays. Hemmingway’s was a visual feast. The food was equally divine.

 

Wonderful, wonderful memories in that restaurant that is no more. Feeling romanced for the first time. Sophisticated. Desired. Wooed. Oh, the humanity. It was heady stuff. I felt it as only a girl can.

 

I’m now off to nosh my pizza. Thanks for sharing tonight’s memory with me. Hemmingway’s was a class act, right down to the music. The soundtrack? None other than Mr. Tony Bennett.

Tony Bennett - The Way You Look Tonight

January 16: You May Address Me As....

Madam V.P.

Today brings broadening horizons to my world. I was honored to accept a new role that represents a promotion at work. Can I get a woot?!? 

I've been a business analyst for over a decade working mainly on mortgage origination systems. My new gig will continue to use this experience but expand upon it as I help to define the direction of our initiatives, and provide guidance for the requirements leads on what is needed to implement projects. It’s a wonderful mix of strategy and tangible details for me.

If you would have told me a decade ago that I’d be a vice president at a large corporation, I would never have believed it. And before you write your ransom note and kidnap my child, please know that there are MANY vice presidents at my work and I won’t be able to pay your asking price, unless it’s in baked goods. It’s simply an honor to find myself amongst such esteemed colleagues.

You may recall that I was a college dropout for nearly a decade before honing in on an MIS degree to advance my career opportunities. I often feel overwhelmingly awed and filled with immense gratitude that it actually worked. 

Life is greeting me with blessings, all. And yes, my soul is singing. 

Black Crowes - Soul Singing

January 15: College Then and Then (and Now)

Today, my work laptop decided to die. Do not resuscitate. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Nothing makes us more aware of how dependent we are upon technology than when it leaves us. I was still able to attend conference calls and be of some use, but it felt like flying blind. Like being in the airplane's cockpit back in the days when you only had your controls and your wits to guide you, and poof – a fog bank encapsulates your plane. No, I’m not comparing myself to Amelia Earhart. It wasn't that courageous. But it was that foggy. Fortunately, I speak fluent fog. I was able to work through it. And garnered a new laptop in the process.

 

While my laptop was dead and I was on conference calls, I dug through some old photo CDs, viewing them on my personal laptop. (Do you feel my personal strife? I had to switch rooms and laptops to remain “connected”. Heaven forbid I listen on a call without a visual to sustain me. Oh – the horror. I will be ok…in time.). I came across a CD my friend Johna gifted me with in October 2007.

 

Johna and I met at Cornell College in 1991. We have seen each other through many life events in the years since that introduction. 2007 was a major transitional year for me. I was going through a divorce from a partner I’d been with since 1997. I had a 3 year-old whom I was horrified to make a child of divorce. I had left my job to stay home with Aria after losing my work/life balance only to find that I needed to return to a job for financial reasons. I had just bought a house while still contracting and was unsure what my permanent income would be. I’d enrolled Aria in Montessori pre-school but had to take her to another daycare for a few months in the interim. Every plan you make when you are married about career goals, home plans (we were seeking to buy land and build a home), and the basic fabric of two lives intertwined dissolved. I was a ship without safe harbor. I felt at once hopeful and lost.

 

I’d been in a relationship from about ages 24-34. I had just started to truly become centered within myself within my 30s. Becoming a mother had a profound impact on me. I was overly malleable with the men in my world prior to Aria. If you've seen Runaway Bride, I was a bit Julia Robert-esque in that I sank all of my worth into my partner, giving them the permission to appraise my value. Melding myself to be pleasing to them without considering if it was true to me. When my daughter came along (10 months after I was married), I still wanted to be a wonderful wife, but it became equally important to be a strong woman. It turned out that my marriage couldn’t make the transition. It was built upon that pandering girl and didn't have much respect for her voice or thoughts. I hold no blame for the dissolution of my marriage. I did not request the divorce, but I embraced it once it happened. It was a gift.

 

Back to Cornell. October 2007. Newly mid-divorce me. It was one of the first weekends where my ex took Aria for a night. As a parent, I did not have children so I could be away from them. It was incredibly difficult to adjust to not having Aria nearby. Sort of like when you forget your purse or cell phone at home and keep reaching for it – a phantom ache you want to rub and make feel better. But in your heart where it's unreachable. Johna was at Cornell for an event, and so we got a B&B room and spent some time. It was a welcome escape.

 

She took me around campus and encouraged me to connect with the woman in me while taking photos of that transformation. This may sound silly to you. It was good therapy for me. I had no idea how to take a photo like a woman. With one of my closest friends, I felt shy in front of that camera.

 

 

In the divorce process, I became hyper-focused on my daughter and her needs during the divorce. Guilt does this, as did my focus on healing every ouch within my own childhood through being an exceptional mama to my daughter. Giving myself a little time at a B&B with an insightful friend was soul therapy. Mama should only be one role (and yes, a vital one) played by a woman. This weekend reminded me of that.

 

At Cornell, we had a Director of Intercultural Life (or some such title) named Jack. Jack put together these amazing slideshows with pictures of students around campus. These were shown via projector on the Orange Carpet (a Cornell thing). I adore those memories of being huddled close to friends with the lights dimmed, watching snippets of what I knew even at the time to be glory days.

 

This was the soundtrack to at least one of those slideshows. Thank you, Cornell, for helping to introduce me to myself in various eras of my life. Thank you, Johna, for helping me re-claim me. I am curious if I went back for a photo shoot now how different I’d feel in my own skin. I think I could nail it.

Tom Cochrane - Life is a Highway

January 14: Daddy's Girl

Yesterday’s song was about the wind. Today Mother Nature seems to be listening to my playlist. The wind is so blustery I feel like grabbing an umbrella and seeing where it takes me (a la Mary Poppins).

Do you recall Winnie the Pooh’s The Blustery Day? Today brought it to mind. It didn’t blow in a Tigger, but it did blow my Christmas tree (which I finally managed to haul to the curb) down the block a bit. “Owl talked from page 41 to page 62, and on page 62, the blustery day turned into a blustery night. To Pooh, it was an anxious sort of night, filled with anxious sorts of noises. And one of the noises was a sound that had never been heard before.” – A. A. Milne

I was reflecting upon the era when my dad lived in Wichita during my late high school and college years. Specifically I was remembering a car ride with just me and my dad along the Kansas Turnpike with a tornado accompanying us.  I’ll come back to that tale in a bit. First, I’d like to share a few reflections about my dad.

My parents divorced when I was 5, and time with my dad has always been precious and scarcer than I would have wished. Divorce is hard on kids. Everyone talks about how children are resilient, and this is true. But since I’ve been 5, I’ve only had visits with my dad. I never did live with him again in any permanent capacity. I’d stay during a college summer or in transitional periods of my life while seeking a new job or apartment, but by then I was a pseudo-adult. Those eyes see our parents from a different angle. I loved looking up.

I adored my father when I was a little girl. I have huge blocks of time without a single tangible memory in them. Remember the Men in Black memory zapper light thing (technical term)? I swear to you there are entire months of my life that are lost to me. Perhaps years. But the handful of seasons I spent on our family’s farm with my dad pre-divorce are filled with an overwhelming amount of warm memories.

He played guitar with a friend, and they made up a song about farming. I can still sing it. I would lay on the floor snuggled next to him to watch a football game, although I had NO interest in the sport. I just wanted to be close to him. I got piggy back rides that made my heart giggle. I hid his cigarettes (which he eventually quit – thank heavens) because I was terrified he’d get sick and I couldn't imagine a world without him. I would rush to the door when he came home from work (he was a recruiter with the National Guard at the time and I thought he was so brave and handsome in his uniform). We had cattle and would go visit “the girls” together. He made me feel adored through no precise action I can articulate - simply by being near me.

Post divorce, the closest we lived to each other was 5 hours by car. Often more. With a stepfather who was a minister, we were bound close to home every weekend for church. It makes sense that I only saw my dad for holidays and a few weeks in the summer, on paper. I don’t know the adult details of my childhood that made me share so little of my dad’s world. They don't matter today. I only know that I ate up the time that I was given like spoon fudge and always, always wished for more. Perhaps we had a special bond or maybe that’s just how little girls love their daddies.

Back to the car. Kansas Turnpike. The tornado. (See I do swing back around after my tangents - promise). I was high school age – maybe 15 or 16. I don’t recall the circumstances, but I had 7 solid hours in the car alone with my dad. I was nervous. I was thrilled. The gift of intentional time with no distractions between us was new to me. We had no magical talk. We shared no earth shattering truths. We ate at the Toot Toot Lounge along the way, for heavens sake.  I didn't need frills to make that car ride a memory I embrace. I don’t particularly even care that there was a tornado that followed us for miles. (We lived. Clearly.) I just appreciate having a memory of dedicated time alone with him.

Dad and me (and Abby makes 3) in Wichita, KS, circa 1989:

Tonight’s song is an oldie blown in by the wind bringing memories of a moment in time. It’s one my dad used to sing to me as a little girl. It makes me feel about 4 years old to hear this song. It makes me feel cherished. 

Elvis Presley - Love Me Tender