Not a hernia.

I had a hernia.  It was an annoying little bugger that managed to make me gasp occasionally and often felt like there was a runners cramp in my side.  Being the type of person that I am, I researched it a bit, read a little too much information, and became quite frightened that it had managed to somehow strangulate itself and a slow painful death was imminent.  I went to the ER when I first found that curious little bump and the doctor didn't seem too concerned and told me to schedule with a surgeon to have it repaired.  I explained the odd sensations that I'd had, and told him it just didn't feel right, but he was unimpressed and sent me away.   The surgeon's office was equally unimpressed with my concerns and I managed to get an appointment 3 months away.  So I waited.  I waited when it hurt.  I waited when my insides felt like they were coming outside.  I waited when I suddenly got terrible heartburn from eating bland food.  I waited when I was scared that the little hernia was rapidly becoming more then a minor annoyance.  I waited until my surgeons appointment was only 2 weeks away and I found myself angry enough to go back to the ER and tell them that I just couldn't wait anymore.

The ER doc came into my cramped little room and told me that my hernia wasn't strangulated according to the CT scan.  My relief was short lived as he added that there was a "large mass" located behind the hernia on my scan.  Mass.  What a terrible word to hear.  He told my hubby and I that it might just be a lot of blood that got left behind from my year old hysterectomy.   I could deal with that.  Old blood seemed a nasty thing to have pooled inside, but they could just suck it out with a big needle or something and I'd have my life back (after a quick hernia surgery).

It wasn't blood.   The ever powerful scan readers working behind some Oz like curtain and making decisions about  who lives, who suffers and who dies, had decided that I should suffer a bit.  My mass was solid.  My mass was large, about the size of a big Florida Grapefruit (why fruit?  Grapefruits are ruined forever now), and my mass was a mystery.  I had been admitted to the hospital by this point, and spent 2 days in a strange dilaudid induced haze.  I slept for a minute or two in between bouts of vomiting from the darkest headache I had ever known.  Eventually the staff realized I was having a bad reaction to the pain meds and switched to clean and simple morphine.   I could push the button to morphine heaven every 10 minutes and spent hours watching the clock, waiting.

I had my first ambulance ride when it was decided that a surgical specialty not available at the first hospital would be needed. No lights or sirens,  I watched the cars behind us as the EMT gave me a dose of some pain medicine and then told me I was "crashing".  I saw the monitor reflecting my blood pressure flashing and going lower and lower as the EMT gave me additional fluids to compensate, and I continued to watch the cars driving by and wondered if this would be how I died,  quietly watching cars in the back of an ambulance.   I stabilized and was rushed to the next hospital, once again in a morphine timed haze, I barely touched the surface of the questions I wanted answers to, or the things I wanted to say to my husband and my kids.  Morphine takes away the what ifs and made my world a 10 minute spin.

I'd been hospitalized for 4 days when they decided to do a CT guided biopsy.  I wasn't sure what I expected but I know I didn't think I would be laying on my stomach in the CT scanner with a giant biopsy needle pushed through my lower left back.  It was scary, and it was painful, but I think the pain was worse because I had looked at the biopsy gun the Doctor was using.   I had to wait in the CT while the 5 biopsy samples were sent to the lab to make sure they were viable, which took about 20 minutes.  Thankfully they were good samples and I got sent back to my hospital room with the morphine drip to wait for the results.  The Doctor seemed to be leaning towards  GIST - Gastrointestinal Stromal Tumor, at this point.  Turned out it wasn't a GIST, it was a new monster I got to add to my dictionary, a Desmoid Tumor.

Desmoids are rare, 1 or 2 in a million kind of rare.  I never even get the lousy $3 wins on the powerball and the odds are much more likely for that then this....this invader that was taking up a pretty large part of my middle abdomen.   Surgery was planned, I was still on my 10 minute morphine spins, and then I was rolling down the hall and fell asleep.  About 11 hours later I awoke, barely, and apparently I spent the next 4 days in and out of consciousness.  I've been told, with giggles now that it is all over and I'm "recovering", that every time I awoke, I would look at my hubby, Jeremy, the poor tired out man, and say "What happened?  Do I have cancer?" and he started by answering carefully, detailing little things about the operation, and statistics about desmoid tumors, all while holding my hand and trying to comfort me.  I would fall back into a momentary peaceful slumber, then reawaken with a start and ASK THE SAME DAMN QUESTION....over and over again.  My daughters Zoe and Becca said it became somewhat comical, and Jeremy's answers became more and more clipped, a short version, the amnesiac version, his frustration only balanced by his fears.  After 12 (or was it 13, I really don't know) days in the hospital, I got to go home.  I have Frankenstein scars in every which way across my tummy, and I could only sleep in a recliner for the first week because laying flat on a bed was too painful.

I am recovering.  I am learning a new kind of strength with baby steps.  I am starting a fight with an enemy that hides for weeks, months, years, (sometimes, a whole lifetime....I am really hoping for this option!), and then it rears it's ugly tumor head and can grow at astonishing rates.  They think it took my tumor one year to go from nothing to the size of a grapefruit.  In one year!  My surgeon told me if it returns, it will be inoperable.  You see the nasty thing about these Desmoids is they come back in the same, scarred, vulnerable spot, again and again.  My "spot" is where the surgeon had to take out 12 inches of my small bowel and weave around my arteries.  So, if the monster returns I am going to have to fight it within.

I cry a few times a day.  Over silly things.  I think it's more a reaction from all of the pain medications and the anesthesia than anything else.   I was clicking through the available Amazon movies list the other night, looking for a distraction, and started crying when I saw "God is not dead" as a movie title.  The tears are brief and I try to make sure I'm not feeling sorry for myself, the good Lord knows I'd rather not waste any time on self pity.  I'm going to focus on my faith.  I'm going to focus on my family.  I'm going to focus on my fight.

Loss

Photo by Amanda

I always try to find a title, and then start writing.  I sit and stare at the blank page, and feel overwhelmed at the possibility of what I could fill it with and then try to conjure a concise title that collects all of that possibility into a few words.  Or, sometimes, just a word.
Today.  I typed Loss.  What a word that is.  Forlorn looking on the empty white space.  The hiss of a future with pain as it lingers on your lips.  Loss.

I've been pretty fortunate in my life.  Loss was a word used in terms of a game, or a small misplaced item, occasionally my pride and sometimes I used it in reference to my mind, but I never felt the sting of it's bite until 2 years ago when I saw the footprints of loss in the eyes of my daughter, Alee.  My happy-go-lucky-world-is-my-oyster little girl lost a dear friend, Dawn, and in turn I felt the loss of my sweet daughters smile.  The loss of her quick laughter, her bright eyes reflecting an adventure was the tragedy to me, I hadn't know her friend, only knew of her, and felt the sorrow of a story I'd only heard and not lived.   My daughter had suffered more than anything I can imagine, for I've lived that fortunate life, and something dark grabbed the light that made my beautiful daughter whole, and she was left feeling something I didn't know.  Loss.

I drove from Minneapolis to Kansas City during a blizzard because I thought I could fix things.  The 7 hour drive took me 16, including a forced stop at a rest area when they closed down the highway because the blizzard was too dangerous to continue driving.  My daughter didn't answer her phone that night.  I laid in a cold car under the orange sodium glow of a street light, snow swirling around the windows as it piled around the car, and I prayed that somehow my daughter would have the strength to keep her faith and find that light that made her whole.

When I arrived in Kansas city, I found my sweet little girl curled up in bed at her friend Amanda's apartment, red eyed and holding a miniature pig that tried to bite me as soon as I walked in.  Laughter can cure so many things, but sometimes the loss is too deep.  We had coffee.  Alee and I.  Alee, Amanda and I. Coffee with friends, coffee outside, coffee inside.  Coffee with crepes, coffee with more friends.  Finally we could laugh a little and I knew I could go home.  I couldn't fix anything at all except a tiny little piece of my heart that held fear, so I just held my daughter tightly for a moment and took a deep breath and prayed for her wings to take hold in this dark place that I didn't know.  Loss.

That girl of mine has a wandering soul, and decided to leave the dark behind and travel to somewhere brighter.  She called me up and said "I'm heading west momma.  Something in my heart wants to be by the ocean and to climb some mountains."  "Then go west sweetheart." I replied.  Well, truth be told it included warnings and discussion of car repairs and tires and all of those things that moms say when their kids wander beyond their reach.  So she did.  She found new friends that helped her cover the hurt just a little.  She was distanced from the tragedy, and she started to smile again.  I worried but no longer suffered sleepless nights because my sense of loss had diminished, my Alee got the twinkle back into her eyes.

A year after her great Western adventure started Alee and I both got a dreaded phone call that her childhood friend, Amanda, had attempted suicide and was in the hospital.  We both started making frantic arrangements to get to Kansas City.  Beautiful Amanda, who had lived with us off and on during her teen years, who called me mamma Morton and knew she could walk in to our house without ever knocking, whom I had nursed when she was sick, held when she cried, and spent many hours on our front deck laughing with a big cup of coffee and eating some strange wholesome baked vegan concoction, yes, dear sweet Amanda died, while another "foster mom" held the cell phone to her ear and I said goodbye.

This is where I started to question faith.  I doubted God.  Not just his wisdom, but his existence.  I doubted salvation.  I doubted everything I'd ever been taught to believe.  And in the blink of an eye and a whisper, I felt it.  Loss.

It's been almost a year now.  I've lost 2 things this time.  My daughters quick smile has vanished again, but I know that it's there, just waiting for that sense of safety to reappear.  I know she will be ok, she is busy finding a new sense of normal in this crazy mixed up world.  I have also lost Amanda.  I have her clay tea mug sitting in the cupboard, and I think of her every morning when I grab my coffee mug to start a new day.  It has stopped hurting to see it sitting there.  I am now to a place where I understand that she is free from burdens I can't understand because she carried a loss bigger than I will ever know inside of her.  It sorrows me greatly to know that instead of sharing that loss in life where we could have divided and conquered the burden, she has shared an irreparable form of it in death, and now all who loved her carry its weight.  Loss.

I'm working on my doubt.  I think I'd fully turned my back on God for a while.   Belief  is wrapped up in so many things and the walls I had built around my heart are open when sometimes my mind is not, and other times my mind is willing but my heart is not.  They seem to coincide more often now, and I think that is a good sign.  In the quiet moments, in the darkness I have come to know, even just for a moment, I feel the warmth of faith.  Faith is the greatest thing to lose, I have learned.

We miss you Amanda.  We found joy, even in the darkness.

Day 1 of the Morton Road Trip Adventure. Leaving home.

I haven't been anywhere for a while, and I certainly haven't packed my 2 weeks worth of personal belongings into the trunk of a car and hit the road for a very long time.  Once upon a time, when I was someone I barely remember, I loaded a tiny orange Ford Fiesta, the odometer  bespoke of 300,000 miles worth of endeavors before I got behind the wheel. with every item my newly married self owned.  My new husband and I drove from Minnesota to Arizona that sun baked August.  That trip introduced me to my America.  We sat in a traffic jam in the middle of of a sheer rock wall in Utah, listening to the Joshua Tree on cassette and contemplating a glorious future.  We saw families packed into station wagons and it seemed romantic that someday, in the too distant to really imagine it future, it could be us.  I swear I saw the face of God in a sunrise across the barren desert backdrop, and felt nothing but bliss in that little Fiesta that we push started almost 2000 miles to find our new home.  

We took the short route back home to Minnesota  less them a month later.  Who moves to Arizona in August but young fools in love with the idea of a desert? 

 I was pregnant within the year and our first anniversay was spent sleeping in a military sleeping bag on the floor of a cockroach infested apartment that was walking distance to the gates of the army base in Colorado.  I found God's Country about the same time that I lost faith in most everything.  I found myself again in the blue eyes of a baby that I had when I was but a babe myself.  

It is 25 years later, and I am packing my bags to go and visit that beautiful blue eyed girl that is off on her own adventure now, but still humbles my heart when I look into her eyes and remember what once was. 

Waiting

After months of gray dormancy I am ready to feel alive again.  We've done little things here and there on the house.  More maintenance than creation.  I've grown so accustomed to it's little idiosyncrasies that I hardly notice the things that used to annoy me.  I think that the blanket of snow that slowly piled and covered us into a bitter cold silence also begins a slow maliciousless suffocation of my creative energy, my wishes, and just as spring hovers upon emergence, I wonder if I can possibly make it out with anything left at all.  Then, the sunshine, the hint of green, a gentle spring rain all remind me of the dreams I'd buried under winter coats and heating bills.  It is coming, I can see it in the sky, the way the clouds roll across the Wisconsin forests to the river and the plains.  I can't wait until it gets here again, my flighty mistress, Summertime.

I keep the patio door open when I am in the hotel room.  The warm floral scented air reminds me that I am not where I am from, and the honking, bird calls, and occasional sirens remind me that a vast city lays just beyond the canopy of luxury I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by.
Yesterday, I asked a hotel driver about going to the City market, also known as Krishna Raja Market.  I'd read it was a great place to get a feel of the local culture, and also a spot to find great trinkets to bring home. The driver raised his eye brows as he did the Indian head nod/bob that indicates they hear and understand what you are saying, but not that they agree.  (The head bob is very contagious and I'm trying to stop Jeremy from doing it because I keep thinking he is agree with something and then realize he is quickly assimilating and may soon be wearing a Dhoti...ah, but I digress and that IS a whole different story).  "You will not want to be there." he said.  "It is a very dirty place, you will get Malaria."  he added.  Malaria?  Hmmm.  Of course, I was even more curious about it at that point, and so far as my basic medical understanding of Malaria goes, it's mosquito born and I am taking those Malaria pills everyday for a reason.  Might as well put it to use, right?
I called the corporate driver, and his only response, as usual, was "Yes ma'am." and we headed off into the heavy traffic.  I usually enjoy the traffic in front of the hotel gates.  Buses filled to capicity, motorbikes whizzing by with an entire family on board.  Noise and hustle and a slight element of danger seems to be my happy place.  Today, I was surprised to hear a knock on my window.  I turned to find a little boy, maybe 7 years old, making a gesture of hunger towards his mouth.  He probably saw my heart drop and my eyes tear up as he held up his left arm, twisted with scars, and he pulled back his shiny silver shirt sleeve to expose more wrinkled ragged skin.  Then I heard a knock on the other window.

Tuesday Morning Ramblings.  9/25/2012

Today, I'm taking a break and relaxing.  My feet and ankles have been quite swollen and I knew I'd have to take a diuretic eventually, and today must be the day. I guess I'm lucky that it  is one of very few side effects I've been forced to live with after the surgeries.   It was good to take a morning nap after eating beyond sating at the world food breakfast buffet at the hotel.  It is an amazing spread, made even more incredible by the fact that a simple hint of desire for anything beyond what is available will send a waiter to the kitchen to hunt down almost anything.  Jeremy says that a young busboy has taken a liking to me, and waits on my beck and call as soon as we arrive.  I don't think it's much more then I've treated him like an equal human being and enjoy talking to him.  He has finished his first year of hotel management training, and is very fortunate to work at the Leela Palace Hotel.  He reminds me a lot of one of a very motivated young man I know in the states who is working hard to overcome life circumstance in a way that most Americans never have to, I would expect this kind of determination is much more common here in India then in the US.  So, he brings me Masala tea that he brews for me each morning, and asks about things that I've forgotten I've even mentioned from days before.  Jeremy smiles the whole time as he sips his black coffee (he is never offered the Masala tea) and is happy that in this patriarchal society, where the doors are opened, head nods are made, and distinguish is poured upon his American male head, I have found a bit of acknowledgment.  

Commercial Street, Bangalore

This is a country of contrasts.  The walls of the Leela are covered in flowing vines, Jasmine and Orchids grow in the crevices and the intoxicating smells almost cover the catch in your throat that the air pollution creates.  There are ornamental iron gates that swing open, inviting guests into the lap of luxury which can only be reached after a thorough security inspection done by armed guards and body scanners.  There are many important people that stay at this hotel, and security is top notch, but that also means there are government officials that drive by the crippled woman on the street, clothes so tread bare they are almost obscene, her bony hand held into the air at the sounds of a passer by, eye's blue hazed over by blindness.  The fleet of hotel BMW's, always at the ready, juxtaposed within site of the Jersey cow sticking it's head between the iron bars of the hotel surround,  foraging through an overflowing trash can, it's teats almost dragging on the ground with burden.  Within a block of this extravagant hotel there are lines of tarp covered shanties, coated in red dust, paths lined with trash that has blown and accumulated in glittered rows of plastic that goats nibble on as you drive by.

  I am white, so I am different, I am stared at, frowned upon, and I am the sweet manna of the hawkers who follow me around every corner. "Ma'am, Ma'am!" is called after me as coconuts or wire baskets or old booklets are put before me for a "good deal, only 100 rupees for you" and the price gets better and voices become more desperate as I walk away.  I tip extravagantly, much to Jeremy's chagrin. "It is an insult" he tells me, for that is what he has read, but I don't see any signs of an insult in the eyes of the cleaning staff that I've given a few dollars to, or the street vendor I tell to keep the change.  The average income in India hovers around $750 USD per year.  Obviously, those living in cardboard tarp shacks are likely making much less then that.  I took the hotel (yes the BMW and the only luxury cars I have seen during my stay) car and driver out adventuring yesterday, and as I do with everyone I meet, I asked a lot of questions and he seemed to really enjoy playing tour guide for an afternoon.  Apparently, most of the people he drives are stuffy foreign business men who don't care that he has a wife, a 4 year old son and an 18 month old daughter.  They don't know that he used to drive a tour bus, 15 hours a day for 20 days at a time, and often only saw his wife 1 day a month.  They also don't know that he pays 5000rp per month for his 2 bedroom flat, which is the equivalent of $100 US dollars, and although it is hard to live somewhere so expensive, he considers himself very lucky.  I tip based upon what I would pay in the US.  I figure that if I am willing to give a five dollar tip to some hard working college student in the US, why would I give any less to someone here who could use it even more?  Maybe don't mention that to Jeremy though.  He raises his eyes over the newspaper at dinner often enough as I talk of my daily adventures.  I'm already planning some more for tomorrow!

India Arrival

I'm going to try and keep a journal of my travels while in India.  Funny how sometimes finding home can take you so very far away.  I promise I will eventually fix the typos and grammatical errors but wanted to post it as it was, jumbled mind aside.  Love from India!

First Night in India

I arrived in  Bangalore during the wee morning hours of a warm late September Saturday.  The humidity and warmth surrounded my like a soft baby blanket as I exited the plane and followed the exhausted mass of fellow travelers to the arrivals area.  I hoped someone in the group knew what they were doing because I was too tired after traveling for over 20 hours to even pay attention to the signs.  My legs slowly came to life as my carry-on bumped along behind me, leaving a trail of rumbles along the metal planked halls as I took a deep breath of (fresh?) air and felt utter and complete relief at finally being on the ground and tried to ignore the nagging reminder that in 16 days I would be making the long trek home again.

The smell?  Curry, and cardamom, jet fuel and dirt, all blended into an exotic and intoxicating scent of excitement.  I was here.  I was in India.   Somewhere just outside the odd arrangement of aisles and tunnels and glassed in halls, Jeremy was waiting for me to finally arrive.  I had no problems going through arrivals, and although I was about 12 minutes worried about the lack of my (many times missing before) luggage, it finally spilled out onto the belt and I grabbed it to pull it through the customs clearance before I could hustle outside.  It was almost 2am, the sky had the orange glow of a city that never sleeps and from the cacophony of sounds I heard just beyond my site, it was indeed a city of constant activity.  

I went through one set of glass doors and was immediately set upon by a gaggle of younger Indian men, "Ride?  "You need a ride?"  "What hotel?" "Cheapest rate!"   "Ma'am?  MA'AM!?" "I have a nice car, you will like it."  The English mixed Indian babble fused into a confusing sense of urgency as I looked for Jeremy and didn't see him anywhere.  I walked by the men, and it did seem to be all men, everywhere, still trying to catch my attention, offering to take my bag, pulling out cell phones and holding them in front of me "Here, use my phone to call if you need." as I tried to pull my useless cell phone out of my purse and figure out what to do if Jeremy really wasn't here somehow.  I walked past the drivers, each holding a name card, and wondered if maybe Jeremy hadn't been able to come because he was stuck on a call and he had sent the driver instead.  My name was no where.  I tried to look very blond and American, in case one of the drivers was on the lookout for me(and somehow it wasn't apparent enough), but no one called out my name as I wandered by.  I walked towards the loud sounds of cars honking and the direction everyone seemed to be going, and arrived at a street scene of mass chaos.  The original drivers persuasive techniques were nothing compared to this.  Cabs lined up in a single lane 3 cars deep in a pattern tighter then a jigsaw puzzle and blocks long, some parked, some honking, lights flashing, voices in every language I'd ever dreamed of busying chatting, greeting, yelling, sirens in the distance, jets taking off overhead, exhaust catching in the back of my dry throat so that I was barely able to say "No, I have a driver" to the cabby's that started following me around.  Still no sign of Jeremy, I wondered if there was another street, another exit, another place that I had somehow missed.  I wandered out from the protection of the police men that were wandering around with rifles strapped across their backs to a canopy in the middle of the street so I was able to look into the large parking area.  No Jeremy.  I switched my phone off of airplane mode, and turned on international service, something I'd hoped to avoid because it was $2.50 a minute and God only knows how much for data.  I was tired, and kept laughing out loud at how very absurd everything seemed.

  I felt like Alice in wonderland as I looked at my phone and realized it was pretty useless because Jeremy wouldn't have his cell on anyway.  I sent a message to his office email, just in case, and the cabby's all seemed quite fascinated that I had no idea where my driver was.  I finally made the mistake of saying my hotel was the Leela because then they were even more vehement that I needed their personal services, they could give me tours "no charge".  Ah, I'd read about these tactics and nicely said no.  I decided I would walk back to the building, and find safe haven until Jeremy managed to come.  I did worry that there could have been an accident, but knew if his office had extraction services planned and available, they would probably figure out how to pick me up if anything happened.  I went through the line of cabby's, then the line of drivers, and made one last trip down the row looking for my name when Jeremy walked up behind me and said "hey".  

Letting Go.

Today, my 2 youngest children started school at a new school, in a new town, a new district, in a whole new state.  High School.  The summer's end tumbled quickly upon me and I wasn't ready at all.  I was playing it cool.  Somewhere in the back of my head I knew I was running out of time, but I waited until the last minute, last weekend to do everything that needed to be done.  Of course, I kicked myself a couple of times but managed anyway, and last night the kids were figuring out what to wear and what to bring and as I listened I overheard them talking about the smell of new pencils and paper.  I heard them talking in the adult like voice of experiences long tucked away as sweet memories to savor from time to time.  They spoke of notes I'd hidden in the recesses of their back packs, telling them I was proud of who they are, I knew they could do it, I was thinking of them, mostly that I loved them.  They talked of a tower of special snacks we used to stock up on, that teetered in the closet, a supply of granola bars and little Debbies that would last at least 100 years (and was often gone within a week).  Most of all, they just talked.  I hadn't heard these kind of conversations before,  it seems when I am there to be a willing referee they put me to use and squabble and argue and generally fight and seem to do all things to make me crazy.  Now I wonder how much of the show is for my benefit?

First day of school 2012

Can they see the sense of loss I feel sometimes now that my family has all grown older?  How I struggle to find purpose when there aren't toddlers to chase, diapers to change, huge family dinners to cook?   And if indeed that is the case- I think they need even more letting go because it is in those moments that the fear of falling, fear of failing on their own kicks in and they reach out to each other instead of me.  Even better then that, while they hold on to each other, they start to fly themselves and realize it isn't me that keeps them up.  So today, while I enjoy the quiet and manage to not get as much done as I'd planned, I am going to try to find solace in the lesson of letting go.

A Light Bulb Moment.

  Today, I plan to write off topic.  No house, no paint (although my hands are covered in primer again and the oil based stuff NEVER comes off!), no walls, yard, ghosts, nada.  Today, I want to talk about a light bulb moment like no other.

There is an old liquor store near uptown Minneapolis called Hum's.  It's a little dilapidated, and likely hasn't changed that much in the 40 plus years they have been selling liquor to the locals.  I think the neighborhood around it has changed and rotated from "up and coming" to "down and trodden" a few times, and likely many people have walked up and down it's aisles in search of something.  It looks like the typical old city building, a brick square with a flashy neon and bulbed sign that attracts the locals in.  Yep, there is no mistaking Hum's and it's longstanding history.

What's funny is that I never knew that Hum's was also part of my history.  You see, way back in the 60's,  my mom lived in an apartment above Hum's with her best girlfriend Randi and another girlfriend.   My dad lived down the hall with 2 guy friends, but they didn't know that yet. They were both in their late teens and living as large as you can above a liquor store in Minneapolis in 1969, or so.  The one great benefit to living above Hum's was not convenient access to Liquor though, it was convenient access to light bulbs.  My mom could climb out the apartment window, walk the ledge a bit, carefully unscrew the hot bulb from the sign, and voila, the apartment was filled with light once again.  From the looks of the sign pictured above, I'd say the tradition continues.
 Late one evening, during the age of Aquarius,  my mom went light bulb fetching and while precariously balanced on the ledge of the liquor store, saw my dad standing on the street below.  Some sort of romantic exchange took place (likely involving a "hey baby"- it was the 60's you know) and the history of their love, their we, and eventually me and my brothers, began with them sharing that light bulb moment.  Today, they celebrated their 43 anniversary.  Today, while I was talking about how they met, my mom mentioned that they all got kicked out of their apartments at Hum's due to an epic water balloon fight in the hallway.  Who are these people?  Love you mom and dad!

History. It happened. Here.

We've been searching, trying to "put a face" to the house.  We knew it was old, we knew other people had lived, danced, cried, cooked, loved, and probably died in this house.  We knew we had about 100 years of history to trace, give or take, and that it might take a little while to uncover some of the secrets hidden in the crevices of the past.   Of course, as with every question I ask, there is a complicated, convoluted answer.  "Where is the county seat/county courthouse for Burnett County?"  seemed to get some dirty looks and shaking of heads.  I was a little confused, it seemed like an easy enough question.  I was wrong.  Apparently, at one time, there was a big 2 story courthouse about a block from my house.  Built in 1888 smack dab in the center of town, it was a point of pride in the townspeople.   With sidewalks, manicured flowers and a gazebo, Courthouse Square was the meeting place for bands and celebrations in the often difficult years in the early 1900's.   

So, upon hearing these stories, I asked "So, Grantsburg is the county seat?"  I was so happy to hear that- it would make my records searching much more convenient.  More throat clearing and shuffling of feet indicated that it might not be the case.  Grantsburg was a busy little village, and they took true pride in their towns image.  Situated within Burnett counties 880 square miles, it was the first welcoming wink to Wisconsin's rolling green hills and hidden lakes when visitors arrived from Minnesota on highway 70.  At some point in the 1980's, the city council knew some updating would have to happen on court house square. It had happened a few times before, but it was time for modernization.  Then they discovered the courthouse was loaded to the gills with asbestos, and no one was loaded enough to find a way to pay for the expensive hazardous waste handling in addition to the general updates and maintenance.  The issue was put on hold, and the courthouse was closed, and operations were temporarily moved elsewhere.    

"Ah, so where do I need to go?  City Hall?  The Library?"  I really thought we were done with this long and convoluted discussion about the history of a building I hadn't even known existed.  I wanted to move on to researching MY house.  More shuffling of feet and furrowed brows implied that our conversation was not over.  

Yes, Grantsburg was the gateway to Wisconsin's wonders.  According to local legend, other cities in Burnett County were a bit envious of this distinction.  During the whole asbestos debacle, and Grantsburg's attempt to receive some funding for restoration of the county wide building left it focused on one thing when it should have been focused on another.  Namely, the city of Siren.  Somehow, the City of Siren filed to become the county seat.  They went through all of the proper process according to state regulations, but the old timers I've spoken to said they came in like a thief in the night and stole away their pride and joy.  Taxpayers in the county had to vote on the change, but notifications were only sent to the residents of Siren.  It was taken to court, but upheld, and a new fancy brick monstrosity stands characterless at the edge of Siren.  Of course, my immediate thought was  the irony of Siren's greek namesake, those sneaky little devils that sang ships into the rocky shores, and then realized I'd have to make the 17 mile trek each way to get my research done.  At least there is a dairy queen.

Frustration

I'm giving myself a timeout.  I woke up this morning, made a cup of coffee in the Keurig (thank the gods of java for that little sucker!) and poured a generous dollop of ceiling paint into the roller tray.  I was on a mission to finish my bedroom.  I got it primed yesterday, covering over the 1980's hyacinth blue and purple with a sleek swipe of white.  I wondered a little about the woman who used to live here.  I think she was about 10 years older then me, and had two teenage sons at the time they lived here.  Her husband passed away, and from what I hear she decided to "let the house go" because it was too much house for her after her children moved away.   I don't know much beyond that, and the fact that her husband loved her enough to build little projects to make her life easier, everywhere.  He didn't own a level as far as I can tell, but boy-oh-boy did that man love to build little crooked projects.  Two wooden trays, a couple of L brackets, and a cut in half dowel became beside tables.  A thousand pieces of bits of scrap lumber became the pantry shelves, one stacked larger then the next with bars of wood screwed to hold them towering together.  I'm also assuming he was the one who put in the parquet floor with it's 2 inch thick adhesive and random screws to hold it tight.  I wondered what she thought when she opened her eyes each morning to the purple blue hyacinth and it's floral border, with the crookedly hung ceiling fan threatening life and limb as it teetered overhead.  Did she love this house and it's nooks and crannies the way I've come to love it?  Was she happy to finally walk away from the little annoying quirks  that come with living in a century old house?  I wonder if she drives by sometimes, stopping across the street and seeing us through the windows, painting over the choices she made, and starting our life anew.
I had hoped to sleep in the bedroom last night.  I had hoped we would drive out to the storage unit, pick up the king sized bed, and sleep "for real" in our room, on a bed.  I had to drive to the other house to pick up kids and drag another load of misc. stuff back with me, and planned to paint the ceiling as soon as I got back yesterday afternoon.  Apparently, Jeremy had other plans because when I got back, pieces of the ceiling were pulled off and laying around the floor, scattered like some tornadic  activity had possessed the room and spewed out my ceiling.  That led immediately to my own feelings of possession as I asked Jeremy what the heck (hell) he was doing.  Apparently, the spot on the ceiling had been bothering him, so rather then just using spackle to cover it (as I had planned because I HAVE learned my lesson about old houses and opening cans of worms) he decided to pick at it.  Then pick some more, then peel back a 4x3 foot section of  multiple layers of old wall paper and paint, all in varying degrees of depth.  Fortunately, he stopped before the lathe and plaster because I think that would have involved pulling off the entire ceiling sheet rocking.  So this morning, coffee cup in hand, I climbed the rickety ladder and sanded off the plaster we'd tried to fix the ceiling with, and started painting, again.  I am so sick of painting ceilings.   So, for now, I am waiting for the paint to dry and my frustration to simmer down.  Maybe I will spend some time working on the house genealogy/history....do I know how to have a good time or what?

The Hard Way

I have a terrible habit of thinking that I can do everything.  I have proven to myself again and again over the course of the last month that this is true, and also proven that it is only true to a certain degree, like the degree where you are laying on the freshly sanded 5 times over hardwood floors, groaning, certain that your life will end looking at that very ceiling.  With dogs licking your feet.  Everything around here seems to involve dogs licking your feet.  Ew.
So, I have learned some valuable lessons in the last month.
    Lesson 1- Rent the expensive, multi-rotational pad sander, not the cheap drum sander.  If you think you need it for 1 day, rent it for 2.
    Lesson 2-  Perfection is something for weak minded people who can't handle knowing an old house had a history that didn't involve them.  Embrace the scars, they mean someone else once loved it before you, and probably wondered about you as much as you wonder about them.
    Lesson 3- Do not (ever) call your husband when it is 100 degrees outside and you are driving an old 5 speed pick up with no air conditioning down the interstate with 2 mattresses and box springs bouncing around in the back, just waiting to fly out and kill some innocent little old lady driving to bingo.  Just go and buy the damn bungee's you want and don't ask for advice.
    Lesson 4- You will not have time to blog about working on the house when you are working on the house.  Get over it.
So, with about a month left to go in my hope to move in time frame, we still have absolutely no kitchen.  We have almost completed the dining room- and even got the chandelier up.

We've finished sanding the main level floors, and they look pretty darn good for how much they would have cost had we paid someone else to do it!

We installed a larger, and hopefully more centered over the sink, kitchen window, and that project was one interesting mess!

Garage Sale Prep(AKA Hell)

I spent most of the day in the garage.  And most of yesterday.  I hate the garage.  It smells like oil and cat pee and everything is covered with the residue of something I don't want to touch (don't get me wrong, I've touched a lot of disgusting things, sometimes willingly, and not complained too much- so it isn't a wussiness issue).
Jeremy and I spent quality time in the garage today.  He, whistling and sorting through 25 pounds of accumulated screw drivers, and me trying not to complain about the screwdriver collection or the whistling.  I am spiteful regarding the screw drivers because we can never find one when we need it.  Apparently they are only visible to the naked eye when no one needs them, so we go to the store and buy more screw drivers to intermingle with the lost screwdrivers and then the kids throw them all over the garage and the cats pee on them and I get angry.  Or maybe bitter?  As for the whistling, I'm pretty sure he only does it when he knows I'm on the edge of a hormonal abyss (otherwise known as middle aged motherhood) and trying not to throw things covered in cat pee at him.  Sigh.  Deep breath.
Today, we managed to clean out most of the garage in preparation to have a garage sale.  I've stated for the last 5 years that I never want to have a garage sale again, and in the last 5 years have managed to have about 5 sales.  It is the only way I ever get the garage cleaned out, and I use it as an opportunity to count the screwdrivers which disappear in between garage cleanings.  The kids use it as an opportunity to count cash and argue about who should get the money for the family gifts I bought last year at Christmas.
After we almost finished cleaning out the garage, we drove to Jeremy's dad's house to help him clean up his garage.  We had a lot of practice at that point and his garage didn't smell like cat pee, so it went quickly and we loaded up the couple of things (van full) he wanted to get rid of.  Tomorrow my mom is coming to help price things and get them set out in some sort of friendly marketing display so that the dozen or so people that show up bright and early Thursday morning can peruse items and make low ball offers.
I won't get a chance to go to the new old house until Saturday, and I'm already feeling the tug of missing it.  I think that is a good sign.  I feel like I belong there instead of here.  I can think of nothing I'd rather be doing then listening to the 1920's playlist I made for the house and painting the slightly tilted walls a second coat of happy colored paint.  Well, nothing I'd rather do except maybe throw things in the garage.  There is always tomorrow....

The Middle Place

The rain against my window confirms my decision that I would take a break from the new house today.  I need to focus a little energy on my existing home and the laundry, dishes, and clutter that have taken a foothold in the chaos that seems to grip this living in-between place.
I think I have lived much of my adult life in a state of in-between, counting days not in hash marks on the calendar or in memories created, but checking off hours according to some internal clock that is only focused on the next step.  Due dates, move in days, birthdays, paydays, there always seems to be something tugging at that place of calm and dragging me into a sense of frenzied anticipation.  I've know it for a long time, and attempted to live in the moment, savor the laughter and the simplicity of just being, but deep down inside I feel the constant tug of just finishing the latest project, or packing for the trip, or arriving at that much anticipated event.  The let down never ends, because in this way of living, you are never finished.  I don't want to live like this anymore.
I planted a garden after I moved here, and over the course of many years it has become a huge masterful statement of how the beauty of nature and the love of a human can combine into something magnificent.  I will be leaving it behind, but plan to haul up cuttings and bucket-full's of perennials to the new house where the ground is just waiting to be violated by my itchy green thumbs.  The garden is my place of zen.  I visually reap in the bounty of my efforts, watching the plants struggle to take hold and then burst from the earth.  I can sit in the garden for hours, blissfully weeding the bad from the good, knowing exactly how much I have completed and how much I have left to do.  It cycles with me, soaking up the cavern of gray rainwater on days of rest, then using that store of exuberance when the sun blinds as you open your eyes to the miracle of light and life.

My garden, Summer 2011

  It is in those garden minutes that I am not hurried, I am not haunted by the frantic pace that I have set for myself and the never ending to-do list that ticks away the moments that should be spent living.  I am hoping to find more of the garden zen place in my day to day life.  It isn't just about stopping to smell the roses, because I do that. It is about living in the moment and being grateful for the time that I have to stop and appreciate the world around me.  I need to let the internal clock go.  I need to quit judging my days by what tasks I have completed, and assess them instead by how much laughter I've shared and how many memories I will be a part of.  No one would want their epitaph to read "She got a lot done."  Today, I am going to live in the middle place rather then focus on the goal, because the middle place is where we spend most of our lives, and if we can be content there- I think the joy will follow.  More then anything, I want to the new house to be a place of calm, of laughter, and a guardian of joy for our family and all who visit there. I guess that is what will make it our home.

Week-end Catch Up

Once again I'm covered in paint.  I'm not sure if that is a sign of my lack of painting skills, or my die hard dedication to the task at hand.  We've managed to rip everything out of the kitchen, down to the (newly discovered) tri-colored wood floor.  We've Spackled the walls and primed them, and now are just waiting for the tell all bid from the contractor so we know if we will be installing the window- or he will.  Once the window is in (easy peasy-righto?), we can install the cabinets that are nicely lined up in my current homes garage- sucking up much needed space.  Sigh.  Seems as though every task from here on out involves a multitude of other tasks that are somehow attached to it.  So, tonight, I will focus on all of the wonderful things we've already managed to do- while taking a bubble bath and scrubbing off my paint covered body.  I may even push the limits and have a glass of wine.
The entire front room of the house is primed, ceiling looks perfect, crown molding is amazing.  Love it.  I started in with the lovely spicy color I'd decided would make it feel warm and cozy on a cold winters night.  It looked like baby poo mixed with clay.  I promptly re-primed it, and am now at a loss.  White is nice?

Front Room Ceiling 

Zoe finished priming her room.  She then started to paint her walk in closet with the ultimate pinkest paint I've ever seen.  The guy at Sherwin Williams knew it was super pink but still gasped in surprise when he popped open the lid.  I tried and tried to talk her out of it, and was terrified by how hard it was going to be to cover over the hideous pink of it.  Of course, in the end, I love it.  It is amazing happy pink and looks pretty gorgeous in the walk in- I can't wait to get better lighting and a couple of mirrors in there!

Zoe's Walk in Closet Pink (with Spackle down the middle)

My mom is still busy painting in the boys room.  It's such a huge space.  I had to stop Ty ("mom- why are you so grumpy?") from dragging his BMX bike up the stairs to his room last night.   My dad has a hard time with the paint fumes, or with any odd smells for that matter, since his cancer treatment.   I think the paint fumes get to him really quickly....or maybe it's the kids?  *grin*
I'm heading off for some rubber ducky time, and will be painting again on Tuesday.  (and I'm excited to get up there and see how the dining room is looking, once the paint has dried.)

Seriously?! Why do these things happen to me.

I found a couch on Craigslist the other day, and yesterday saw that they had dropped the price from $300 to $100, so I was forced to email asking where it was located and if it was still available.  I got a quick response from a nice woman who said that her home was being foreclosed on Friday (today) and the Sheriff would be there to put a lock on the doors first thing Friday morning, but if I wanted to meet her at the house Thursday between 3:30 and 5:00pm, the couch was mine.  Of course she lived all the way down in St. Paul, but I figured the 45 mile trip was worth it for a really nice couch I could put in the kids tv room at the new house.
Ty was kind enough to offer to help me, so we hopped in the van with a little time to spare and heading down to the "big city" to pick up our treasure.  The power steering line in the van has been leaking, and apparently an executive decision (which did involve me) was made that since it was on it's last leg at 267,865 miles, we would not put the $700 dollars into it to get it fixed.  That decision made the drive slightly more interesting since we had to pull off the highway twice to put power steering fluid in.  It was nice having Ty along, he was happy to hop out and pop open the hood, and even knew where to put the fluid in.  I also realized he is a tad bit of a worry wart, cautiously telling me to shut off the engine before popping the hood, and mentioning that we should pull off the highway at the earliest sign of any steering noise.  Traffic was heavy already at that point in the afternoon, but we managed to pull into the house around 4pm.
I was surprised, and saddened, to find an adorable little brick cottage up on a cliff surrounded by flower beds and old growth trees.  It was a heavenly little piece of real estate and my heart went out to the couch woman who was losing this place to foreclosure.  She walked out the door, wiping sweat from her brow and said "Hi, I'm Rochelle."  Her long dark hair was perfectly coiffed, and she looked to be a perfect size 2. I didn't feel quite as much pity as I had before.  Woman are really bitchy that way sometimes.  She let us into the house, which was about 80% emptied, with random large furniture items and framed wedding portraits laying around.  She said that she had gotten a divorce and was now losing the house.  I offered my condolences about losing such an adorable little place, she shrugged and said she had found a nice new place.  She seemed to be looking forward to making some new memories somewhere else, without the silver framed fairy tale wedding portraits that were scattered throughout the house.
She pointed to the couch, which looked even better then I'd imagined.  "You might have to take the bottom off, I think we did when we brought it into the house, but I just haven't had time to mess with it.  I was thinking if you twisted it around, it would probably fit through the slider though."  There was a 3 inch carved wooden piece that went around the bottom of the couch, and had each of the wooden legs attached. She also mentioned that if I was interested, I could have the little table next to it, and the rug.  How could I pass that up?  I gave her the cash I had in a wad in my pocket.  She took it, grabbed her purse, looked at her watch, seeming a little frenzied.  "I am really sorry, but I can't help you.  My son who is twelve" she then gestured to a height just above her own petite head, "has a school concert tonight and he has outgrown his shoes and I need to pick him up and take him shopping."  She was walking towards the door, and I was finding the whole situation a little odd.  "Feel free to take as long as you like, just shut the door when you leave."
She knew.  She had to know.  Ah, but I get ahead of myself.   Ty and I stood looking at each other after the door closed.  "We could do anything we wanted right now.  We could take anything. Why would she just leave us here?" he looked around uncomfortably.  I shrugged my response, "I guess she has lost enough that losing more doesn't really matter anymore."  I hoped it would make him feel more empathetic then opportunistic.  I started to flip the couch, pushing to towards the sliding glass door she had indicated we should use.  He grabbed it on the other side, and we pushed it to the door frame, rotating it left, then right, up then down.  Nothing.  There was no way in hell that this couch was gonna fit out that door.  I walked to a different door in the next room, it looked about the same width, but maybe?  I turned the handle and the dead bolt was locked, with a key.   By that point Ty had flipped the couch upside down and was wandering through the house, looking for a screw driver.   I helped him search, pulling open kitchen drawers, looking in the cabinet above the fridge, finding only twist ties and legos.   He ran out to the van and came in with a little socket set I had just purchased for myself.

 Duh, I can't belive I'd forgotten it was in there.  It was locked shut with zip ties and there wasn't a knife in the house.  We managed MacGyver it open with a bit of wire that we twisted until the plastic snapped.  We quickly got to work on the 4 inch long screws under the couch, and I was quite proud of how inventive we were.  I yanked on the wooden bottom, and it didn't budge, Ty walked over and yanked with me.  Nothing.  I'd removed the wrong screws.  We looked a little closer, and realized the screws we needed to take out were down deep dark holes that I didn't have a long enough socket to reach.  So I sent Rochelle a text message that said we had to leave to find a store and a screw driver, but would be returning, just in case she returned home while we were gone.  We hopped into the van, and drove down the residential street, having no idea of where some sort of hardware store was.  I stopped and asked someone walking their dog, and 4 miles later we had 2 screwdrivers and a van that needed more power steering fluid.  We got busy and spent the next 10 minutes unscrewing another 12 long screws and finally pulled the frame free.

Ty, busy unscrewing the frame

Over an hour later, finally!

View from the drivers seat though the van.

The couch was a beast to squeeze through the door, but we managed it, then got to the van and realized that the only ones who knew the secret to opening the broken hatch door were my hubby and Zoe.  We leaned the couch against the van so it wouldn't have to sit on the ground, then took turns trying to get the back to open.  Finally, after a frantically frustrated call to Jeremy, we managed to do it, and precariously jam the couch in.  The hatch wouldn't shut, so we rigged it up with a couple of tie downs (which I later realized Ty pulled all the way through to the front of the van and attached to my seat adjuster bar??!!?).


The trip home was in hot, muggy traffic.  It took almost and hour and a half to make the 45 mile jaunt.  We were both dripping in sweat and Ty's only comment other then mentioning dire thirst was "You're paying me for this, right?"

Painting and Waiting

Things are progressing pretty quickly.  The things I can do, that is.  There is the whole dark beyond, which involves gas lines and water heaters, that are not progressing.  Those are the things I cannot do.  I'm hoping to keep that list short, and overcome whatever silly fears I might have of floor sanders or Sawzalls.  We still haven't heard word back from the Contractor we talked to.  I think the bid may end up being one of those great documents that we point at in the future and say "Look how much money we saved" by living in chaos and doing it all ourselves.
  The funny thing is, I am loving it.  There is something so amazingly satisfying about rolling paint on and seeing a room completed in front of your eyes.  The best part is that when it is done, it is DONE.  Not like laundry, or the dishes that have been piling up in the sink since we've started this project.  For real done!
I've spent a lot of zen painting time contemplating the hands that have painted these walls before me.  We estimate the house is about 110 years old, and there are many layers of paint between me and the plaster.   Did they, too, feel happy to be working on this house?  I wonder whose voices are reflected in the decor choices.  How many children have laughed here?  How many newlyweds called this house a home?    I'm looking forward to getting a chance to learn more about it's history.

The (other) Red Room

I'm patiently (not so) waiting for a call that the place I bought my new-to-me kitchen cabinets from is on their way to deliver them.  I noticed as I stumbled out of bed this morning and stiffly walked down the hall that I'd gotten a pretty good work out painting yesterday.  I'm not sure if there is a muscle group that isn't aching today!  Real life work outs are the best- I can't count how many squats I did while painting around the floor boards, and the stretches were like primal yoga as I painted the ceiling.  Today, I wait, and if time allows, make the hour and a quarter trek to the new house and paint some more.   Update- cabinet man just called and said they won't be delivered until after 1pm.  Now I can pinterest all morning while my achy joints relax into one solid mass of "ow".  Yay!  :)

Trail of Trials- The Beginning!

There is never a really good place to start a journey when you aren't sure when it began.  I'm starting with today.  My hands are covered in kilz primer.  My shoulders ache from painting a ceiling, after painting wall after wall after wall after, well, you get the point.  Lots of painting.  Today, I feel in love with a house.  Better yet, today, I feel in love with MY house.  It doesn't really feel like it is mine yet, we've only owned it since last Friday, but I'm working on knowing it well enough to call my home soon.
We started looking at old, run down, abandoned, foreclosed and oft falling down houses last summer.  It was sort of a hobby fueled on dreams with just a touch of reality to keep it interesting.  We knew we wanted out of our typical 1970's rambler: boxy house, boxy rooms, boxy neighborhood. We knew we wanted out of the town of Zimmerman- the back yard of towns in which my husband and I were both raised in and had hoped to get a little further away from.  We knew we wanted something to call our very own, since we'd meshed our prior lives-children, homes, pets, exes, furnishings, hopes and dreams-  into a jumbled array of whatever worked but nothing that we actually chose.  Most of all, we knew we wanted an adventure, together.  I think it's become a pilgrimage of sorts, and I've decided to share our trail of trials.

So this is our house, the basic little box that we somehow managed to raise 7 kids, a multitude of dogs, cats, a handful of gerbils and hamsters, a couple of bunnies, and 1 ferret in.  I've lived in this house for almost 10 years, and Jeremy has been here for 15.  We will be leaving behind a house that was filled with love and laughter, occasional tears and has a few dents to prove that it was well lived in.  I'm not sure how it will feel to close the door one final time and know we will never call it our home again, but I like to think that we take the most important part with us.
Knowing that we wanted to move away from this house, and this neighborhood, and set out for parts unknown but still within easy commuting distance, we started our search last year.  We had a lot of fun looking at homes.  We wandered around caution tape that pointed to giant holes in the floor boards, saw evidence of Realtors that had fallen through stairways, and plugged our noses through vacant homes filled with cats (or squirrels or worse).  We drove from one end of Minnesota to the other, discovering cute little hamlets along the rivers and forgotten farming communities just one or two families shy of becoming a ghost town.  We looked more earnestly this spring, and finally, after a few dud offers on other houses, we bought a medium sized two story home in Grantsburg,Wisconsin, and this blog will be the story of our new home and our new life.  Welcome to our new home!