Some people get you. Others never will.

“I don't think we have all the words in a single vocabulary to explain what we are or why we are. I don't think we have the range of emotion to fully feel what someone else is feeling. I don't think any of us can sit in judgment of another human being. We're incomplete creatures, barely scraping by. Is it possible--from the perspective of this quickly spinning Earth and our speedy journey from crib to coffin--to know the difference between right, wrong, good, and evil? I don't know if it's even useful to try.” ― Alexandra Fuller

I walked alone along the sidewalks of Main Street in Red Lodge, Montana.  Snow crunched under my feet in the pale, orange light of mid-September while more snow fell in quiet whisps—twisting and turning in a delicate dance to the ground.  I pulled my hat down farther and my red down coat a little tighter against the chill.  The shop windows, glowing against the darkening of night, gave a glimpse into another world.  Couples laughing over dinner and wine.  Friends toasting shots. A grandma, picking out a new light.  

Parked outside The Pollard was a Subaru with “Just Married” painted on the back.  I stood under the street lamp on the corner and looked up at the falling snow and the lights in the rooms above.  I was heavy into thoughts about endings, but I stopped to consider the new beginnings painted on that car. I had no cynicism left.

I’ve said before that maybe happy endings are messy and ugly.  They sometimes involve lots of pain and tears.  I watched the snow fall and it occurred to me that all new beginnings involve the ends of something else, and then I wandered on to the Snow Creek.

The bar was empty except for Susie, the bartender, and an older hippie sitting at the far side of the bar.  Susie was pushing 60 (or looked it), but she was dressed like the 20-somethings everywhere else in town that you could tell were working the mountain for a few days of free skiing.  They looked up as I walked in, taking off my hat and shaking off the snow.  For a second, I felt I was interrupting something, but they both hollered a friendly hello.  

I contemplated sitting closer to the old man, to make her bartending easier, but really, I wanted to be alone to ponder things.  Life.  Love.  Trust.

Ordering a PBR seemed too cliché, so I settled for a Stoly Collins (trying to remember my own free days as a ski bum).  I gave her a twenty and asked for fives for the juke box.  I played Joe Purdy and went back to my drink.  

I was remembering my divorce.  A horrid, ugly affair, and as I sat nursing my drink, I remembered all the friends that felt they had to take sides.  Aside from my kids, I think that was my biggest fear of this marriage falling completely apart.  It’s not so much ‘losing’ friends, but realizing who never was one to begin with.  Maybe that was the part that scared me most.  

You spend years of your life spilling your guts to people that really don’t give a shit but pretend they do.  That hurts more than knowing love, somewhere along the way, died.  I stared at the cherries; Susie gave me two.  I busied myself tying the stem of one into a knot with my tongue, staring into the vodka, contemplating how life was going to be. An end, and yet, a new beginning.

We’d gone away to figure out where to go.  Not like we were figuring out the next vacation, but to decide, once and for all, how to split things.  How to divide up the kids and the bills, and I guess, in the end, the ‘friends.’  Things got heated; we lost track of what the real reason for talking had been, and decided to take a break.  Past accusations.  All of our faults. I went for a walk.

I felt a hand on my back, and someone was passing me five dollars.  The old hippie sat down beside me and said, “I like your music.  Play some more.” 

I played his money and as I sat down he said, “You can always tell a Montana girl by her music.”

“I’m from Idaho!” I laughed as Susie pulled up a stool.

We talked and laughed and had a few shots.  I walked outside to smoke and Susie followed.  “What brings you here this time of year?” she asked, seeming genuinely curious.

By now the snow had stopped.  I took a deep drag and stared across the street.  “I decided I could figure out my life by holing up in a condo for three days,”  I replied.  “I knew no one would find me here.”

She looked at me knowingly, crushed out her cigarette, and said, “Good luck.  Your next one’s on me.”

I debated on going back in or going back and crashing under the homemade quilt that Dorothy from Georgia made and was sure to let everyone know she had in the guestbook on the coffee table.  But, I went back in for that free drink.

As can happen when old souls meet for the first time, our conversation got deep.  As I was pulling on my hat, and the snow started again, the old hippie said, “You stay good.  Don’t worry about losing the people you never had. Some get you and others never will.”

I walked out into the night and back to the abode.  I sat in the hot tub and watched the stars.

The next two days were deeply personal, and what I thought was the end, ended up being a new beginning.  

What I’ve learned in the last year, is that yes, happy endings are messy and ugly and they sometime involve a lot of pain.  I’ve learned that the people that judge relationships the most have never really had a successful one.  

I’ve come to appreciate the people I’ve always had, and thank God, the ones I never did showed their colors.

Some people just GET you.  And, some never will.  

Keep your stories for those who do.

Letter to my 19-year old self

I turned 39 yesterday, and looking back on 20 years, I have some advice for my old self. Plus, as a mother of two daughters…this is to you and me.

You’re probably sitting there, right now, in the middle of an existential crisis.

The sun is shining rays through the window, and you’re questioning yourself.  Have I made my parents proud?  Have I lived my potential? WTF am I supposed to do with my life?

First, I want you to know that things are fine.  Chill. The. Fuck. OUT. For real. 

Those thoughts you have, about not being good enough?  They lie to you. 

You’re going to find someone who tells you every single day just how beautiful you are.  You’ll find a hollow validation in that.  

Your heart is going to break over love.  Into a bazillion pieces.  You will live.  It’s going to hurt--deep down in the marrow of your sternum, and it will take your breath away.  But, you will live.

Someone will fall in love with your mind and you’re never, ever, going to let them go.  Ever.  Because you’re going to realize the scale doesn’t matter.  You’re going to realize that the guy buying you drinks, only tells you have pretty eyes for one reason. 

You will fall in love with yourself...and that's better than anyone else can give you.

You are going to lose your best friends.  Not over the petty drama of boys and silent treatments.  They are going to really die.  They will pass on to watch over you.  Always with you in a way they couldn’t be before. This will teach you to appreciate getting old.  You will learn to tell everyone, “I love you!” because you finally know you might not have the chance tomorrow.

You will learn that an education doesn’t make you intelligent or guarantee a job. You’ll learn new things anyway.

Sadly, you’ll learn who deserves your tears, and who doesn’t.  Happily, you’ll come to know laughter through tears is the best emotion.

You will live through a moment where you think you want to feel the depths of human emotion, then you will learn they don’t call it deep for a trivial reason.

You will fight with your mother.  You will realize entire libraries exist telling this story.  You will hold her hand and tell her you love her anyway.

Your dad will be your hero again.

You’ll travel.  A lot.  It will make you realize you grew up, not in a backward place, but in beauty and love.  

You will embrace the different.

You will realize your strength when you give birth.  You will wipe tears, heal wounds, and give slobbery kisses.  You’ll feed ice cream to broken hearts, throw rocks at boys, and comfort the sick.

You’ll confront more than your fair share of bad.

You'll feel guilty for not being the perfect mother.  You'll find grace  when they turn out fine.

You will wake up, praise the sun, take a breath and love your life.

You’re going to have breakdowns and meltdowns and throwdowns.  You will still get back up, maybe even not knowing you’re better for it.

You will hate stretch marks, but love the memories of kicks in your belly.

You will hate crows feet, but learn to bask in the sun that gave them.

You’re going to fight over what is right.  You WILL lose.  You’ll fight anyway.

Things aren’t going to turn out like you planned.  They’re more beautiful.

You will fight your head.  Stop it.  

Stop asking why. Stop asking, “Should I?”

Or, to my girls, maybe you won't.  Maybe there is a different route for you to find.  Find it.  Embrace it.  Love it.

Know you are loved.

Buy the ticket.  Take the ride. 

You will come out on the other end happy, beautiful, and just like it was supposed to be.

Just be.

Namaste.

Time

The thing about the desert in the blazing afternoon sun is the quiet.  The only thing you can hear is the wind, sometimes roaring up from the southern end of the Snake River Plain.  So quiet sometimes you can hear your heart beating and the blood pumping in your ears.  The wind so loud on other days you can barely hear anything else. 

The sun shines on these days in bright, white light.  Heat rises on the horizon and pushes the buttes into funky shapes and ripples the mountains to the west.  I need the quiet.  I’m terrified of snakes, and the quiet lets my ears tell me what my eyes and the stick I use to poke the brush sometimes don’t—a rattlesnake letting you know you’ve gotten a bit too close to his grouchy ass.

I love the early summer, when the needle and thread grass sways in waves.  I sit in the lupine and paintbrush to eat my lunch, and pull the seedy heads off the grasses, teasing the large army ants.  Usually staring off at the mountains, thinking of good routes if I ever decided to climb again.

I’m late this year.  The flowers have gone to seed and the grasses have already senesced in the dry heat.  The cicadas have hatched, and their loud scratching puts me on edge.  I can’t hear the quiet.  Franklin’s gulls circle everywhere.  They only show up here in these numbers when the cicadas are everywhere and fat and bleating—hiding  the sound of snakes.  “They saved the Mormons,” I tell myself. 

Maybe they’ll save me.

The weather man says we’re in for a severe drought if we don’t get feet and feet of snow.  I knew by sitting in my grass and watching the snow on the Lost River Range we were in for a dry spell.  The grasses shrivel, and with every sigh of the desert in the dry heat, I can feel a drought in my heart swell.  

We’re growing apart.  We fight and yell and drive each other crazy.  We wonder aloud what we’re doing, and, as the water table drops another foot, another giant chasm opens between us.

I sit in a manager’s office.  He calls me “kid” and “sweetie;” a condescending way of letting me know he thinks I don’t know what I’m talking about.  “You’re going to have to supply supplemental water,” I tell him, regarding the vegetation project he wasted his money on last year by not listening to me.  “Otherwise, you’re just going to keep wasting your time and money.”

Supplemental water.  The grass is only greener on the other side of that fence ‘cause the neighbors water.  So we head into fall, trying to water the dying shriveled mess we’ve made.

We make it to winter and the sky only sends enough snow to make the roads unbearable and treacherous. Enough snow and bitter cold to freeze us in a grip of cold and tragic death.  The reaper pulls at whim, leaving us surrounded by the screams of grief that drown out all else like the cicadas have drowned out my quiet, peaceful summer. 

He takes at his leisure, and I wonder why, like Pilate, he leaves us Barabbas and takes the good. 

So we water our parched pieces of drought stricken hearts with our tears and remember what really matters.  In the middle of our loud and angry grief, our gulls come in the form of “I’m sorry,” and “I love you,” and “the dishes can wait.”  They swoop down and gobble up our sorrows and remind us we have time to heal.  Time.  They give us time to focus on what really matters.  The cicada of grief hatches and leaves behind an empty shell.  But like the butterfly, it morphs into something more beautiful.  A hug.  A touch.  Laughter.  Love.

We realize we have time.  A gift denied many.  

So, I’ll scoop up my glorious time, because when the drought of time hits, no amount of watering will save it.

Cracker Jacks

I’m sitting here this morning, at 5:00, because I can’t sleep. I’m sad and confused and it is making me shake with anger.

 I’m eating Cracker Jacks, because it’s the biggest act of defiance and rebellion and protest I can muster from behind a computer screen while using social media.  I’m not so much eating them, as chomping down on them with all the anger my 38 years can muster, with a very defiant attitude, one hand shoving them in my mouth, and the other clenched in a fist of rage while I stare at a cursor between typing and chomping so hard I might crack a tooth.

Most people wouldn’t associate my Cracker Jacks, the treat of our younger years with the hidden surprise, with an act of protest.  But to me, they have come to symbolize something VERY close to my heart.

This story starts at a car wash.  I was about three.  I know this because my brother was born when I was four and my mother wasn’t pregnant and she was vacuuming our Toyota Celica at a car wash in Idaho Falls.  Going to town was always a treat.  We always got Kentucky Fried Chicken and went to the zoo to see the monkeys.

It was a sunny day, and I vaguely remember the sun was pale yellow and streaming through the window in a bright ray that reflected dust.  I was crouched on the floor behind the front seat, scared, staring at the black vinyl pocket on the back of the seat.  My mom was looking for me, but I could not move or speak from fear.

She finally found me and asked what the hell I was doing, in that panic-stricken way that is tinged with ultimate relief.  I said, “That man got burned up.”

A black man had pulled up and started using the vacuum next to us.  I remember my mother telling him hello and asking how he was.  He’s also the one that told her I was hiding behind the seat when she panicked.  I had never seen a colored person.

My mother was embarrassed.  She pulled me out of the car and informed me he wasn’t, in fact, burnt up, and made me speak to him.

Fast forward a couple of years and I had a cousin who went through a phase of using the ‘N’ word.  I remember standing in front of the dryer and it came out of my mouth.  My mother grabbed me by the nape of my neck, marched me to the sink, and washed my mouth out with Lemon Joy dishsoap.

I wasn’t yet in kindergarten, and my mother wasn’t the type to ever say, “Wait until your dad gets home!”  No, she was the take charge type that flushed your shit the minute it happened.  But, not this day.  She let me know Dad was going to hear all about it, and she made me tell her where I heard that word.  And let me clarify, she had every right.  I heard every cuss word known to man with my mother’s family, but never in all of my days, even still, have I ever heard that word uttered by my parents.  I’ve witnessed my father tell people to leave his house for using it.

My father has never laid a hand on me.  I was in my room when he got home, and he called me down stairs.  He was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, by the heater, in front of the television we had that didn’t work.  A stack of vinyl records were under the table, and I stared at the cover of Linda Ronstadt in roller skates on the top, because I was scared to look him in the eye.  I was scared I was going to get my first Buddy spanking.

It never happened, but at 5 years old, instead of just telling me it was bad and handing out corporal punishment, my dad gave me a history lesson about the derogatory meaning of that word.  From slave ships to MLK, Jr., he covered it.  It ended with him telling me of a good friend he had in college who returned to Uganda and was killed by Idi Amin.  And, even at 5, the power of words used to oppress people was not lost on me.

And in the middle of all of these memories from my early childhood, sunny summer mornings helping my grandmother clean the bar stand out like lilacs in bloom after the rain.  Grandma would pick up the mail at 10:00 in the morning and deliver it to us before going to clean the bar.  We’d play the jukebox and pretend to mop the floor, probably making a bigger mess than we helped clean.  We’d fight over songs and space invaders and see how fast we could get the bar stools to spin.  When we had finally drove her good and crazy, she’d kick us outside. 

We’d do balancing tricks on the parking curbs in the parking lot, roll down the hill, then get bored and decide it was time to visit Joe.

I’ve written about Joe before, but he was the first gay person I ever knew, and I didn’t know he was gay until years later.  He was a part of our family.  At every Christmas, he had gifts for all of us.  Plus, he always had boxes of Cracker Jacks that he kept just for us when we’d visit.

Cracker Jacks. That red, white, and blue box. I always looked forward to the Cracker Jacks.

I grew up around gay people.  There are too many to even count, and all of them, every single one, has done more good in this world just by being brave enough to come out of the closet, than all of the people combined whom I have heard utter “faggot” over the last two days and the course of my life.

My mother has always called me too sensitive and too idealistic.  I’d cry over books or get pissed at being told I couldn’t do something because I’m a girl. I’d get pissed at my grandparents’ racist comments.  I STILL get irate when people lecture me for giving money to panhandlers.  Mom would tell me, “They’re just uneducated.”  Her compassionate way of dealing with people.  And, my mother didn’t mean school educated.  She meant opening your eyes to new ways of thinking.

I don’t believe it’s a lack of education.  I believe it’s fear.  Just like me when I was three.  I had to get out of the backseat and shake the hand of the real world.  I had to realize it wasn’t what my few years in an isolated small town taught it me it was.  

It’s fear because it’s hard.  It’s hard, because, just like that first book you had to read for symbolism and metaphors and look between the lines, it takes putting aside what’s on the surface and digging deeper. Learning to think in ways you haven’t before.

It’s fear because we have a messed up notion that giving some “outcast” group of people a chair at the table means we have to give up our seat, when in reality, we just make room and pull up an extra chair.

Telling the oppressed to respect the oppressor is the trick used by partriarchy, colonial imperialists, and just about every class of people seeking to preserve a false sense of entitlement.  Call me crazy, but I have no desire to inflict myself with a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome.

I have come to the conclusion, that, no, they’re not uneducated.  Stupidity is not inherent and is not a justification for bigotry and being an ass.  Most people with serious learning disabilities still understand kindness.   It does not, and should not, ever, excuse behavior that is unjust and evil.  I’m not jumping on some “let’s just keep our mouths shut and let them be mean” bandwagon.  That’s how tyrants become tyrants…no one stand up to them.

Moreover, I have no desire to surround myself with assholes.  And, when you consciously make a decision to hate a group of people that you don’t even KNOW, and lump them all together as one type of person, you are missing stories and the deepest connections that make us human.  You are choosing to be a total douchebag, and as for me, I’m not going to stand in silence while you bellow through a megaphone how others are inferior.

I don’t stand for it in the walls of my home or from the mouths of my children.  

Anger is an underlying emotion.  I know.  I’m not angry.  In fact, I’m deeply sad and confused. 

This isn’t about you being able to say whatever you want.  It’s not about some pasty-white, straight, Christian, Daddy-rules type vision someone else has about what this country should be. 

It’s about standing up for justice and equality.  It’s about standing behind the things I teach my children.  It’s about taking up space, and refusing to accept a world and way I don’t want my children to grow up in.  It’s about people thinking it’s perfectly fine to be an asshole.  

I don’t care if you find justification for bigotry and hatred in the Bible, the Constitution, or whatever news outlets from which you choose to glean your information.  They are the same things that have been used throughout the ages to keep people on the fringe in a nice little box so they don’t get all uppity.

You’re right.  You ARE free to be an asshole.  You’re free to choose to be an asshole.  You’re free to sit in judgment, and say I have mine and all of that.

You’re not free from being called out on it.  So, when you decide to be that asshole, I’m going to crunch Cracker Jacks in your face and let you know…because, in the words of my mother throughout my entire life, “Don’t be a dick.” 

I'll chomp my Cracker Jacks with my mouth open, so you can see them being chewed up.  Because you're behaving like a Cracker and a Jackass.