tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307522862024-03-14T00:17:13.695-06:00The Front PorchA small-town column about local life here in York, Maine, and the world at large, where political correctness has no place and no topic is off limits. There's always a space for you on The Front Porch.
And remember: What gets posted here is my opinion, humble or otherwise.Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-46074386973145844052014-05-19T15:41:00.000-06:002014-05-19T15:42:24.309-06:00A Farewell To My Father<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Yesterday, my dad asked his beloved wife Lee to help him find his passport and then get him to the airport. He had a trip to make. Lee assured him she would. The thing is, she won't. </div>
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My father had a stroke on April 11.</div>
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He spends his days in the advanced stages of dementia.</div>
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My father is dying.</div>
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Those words are not easy to write. When I think of them--which I do, about 247 times a day--I feel guilty. Sad. Powerless. He is my father; during the best parts of our relationship, he was my dad. Now, he is an 81-year-old man who cannot do anything for himself...who survived emergency brain surgery only to barely escape falling victim to heart attack and then was left too ravaged to fight off pneumonia. He has lost 45 pounds in five weeks. He doesn't want to eat. He hardly wakens, and he will never again do those things which brought him happiness--read a book, watch a sporting event on TV, linger over coffee with Lee. He will not survive. He will not. He will. He.</div>
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Like the words of my sentence above, Dad is just fading away, moment by moment. He gives us false hope, because every now and then, he says something that allows us to believe he could not possibly have dementia. Although weakened, he continues to try to make jokes with his caregivers. It is clear he resents their presence yet values their assistance. He does not want to be where he is, but he seems to understand that his journey on this earth is nearly complete. And to finish it, he must leave us behind. It is the eternal cycle of every parent-child relationship: Raise your child well, and he will leave you. Eventually, unless the the Universe has an alternate, twisted plan, you will one day have to leave your child. And all the preparation in the world will not make this event less vicious. It will not make you stoic. It will not bring you grace.</div>
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This saying goodbye again as I watch my dad disappear before my very eyes forces me to admit that this is all there is and all there ever will be. The good and bad, the highs and lows, the things that might have been and those that never should...these snapshots of my yesteryears fill my waking moments and waken me from those I should spend sleeping. Ours was not an easy relationship. In recent years, he expressed regret at how he chose to parent me and my brother and sister. He admitted to not being as involved as he could have been, to not being strong when strength is what our family needed. He hated his cowardice, how he ran away from us--three times, when all was said and done--and left us in the care of Mom, whose sanity was unstable at best and who, though she loved us fiercely, could not be relied upon to put a child's needs ahead of her own madness.</div>
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Dad lived with his demons, and throughout my childhood, he drank to forget them. His abuse of his children was thinly disguised anger and frustration over his own futility in our family dynamic. Such abuse--be it physical or emotional--is a hallmark of living with a person whose power is rooted in maniacal manipulation; how does one reason with insanity? It cannot be done. As children of this dysfunction, my siblings and I needed Dad to be a hero, the proverbial white knight on a fiery steed. What we got instead was a mere mortal who could neither defy or defend, who was wholly incapable of stepping past his own reflection to recognize that his babies were just as fearful and frustrated as he. Dad was not equipped for a life with Mom, and that fact seemed to trump anything we kids could possibly need. </div>
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I held it against him for years, this selfish attempt at self- preservation. Yet as I grew older and (hopefully) wiser, I softened in my stance. I spent a few years living alone with Mom. They were the most mentally challenging, frightening years of my young life. I eventually married and had children of my own, and as I traded in the role of child for parent, I couldn't help but see my Dad through new eyes. The upshot of this broader perspective resulted in a deeper disgust at how he put his own desires and needs not only ahead of ours but in place of ours, but also in a more forgiving attitude toward his inability to figure out how to make it all work. Somewhere in my early 40s I came to understand that there was no right response to his (our) predicament. There was wrong and more wrong, and no one is going to come of a situation like that in a favorable light. I chose to believe that Dad did the best he knew how to do with a heinously bankrupt situation. Making this choice allowed me to experience hurt and sadness every time he chose not to reach out to my children--his grandchildren--and build meaningful relationships without letting those emotions consume me.</div>
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Because of my ability to accept Dad on his terms and not expect more than I knew he would ever give, we shared a stable relationship over the last decade. I gave up on the idea that he might offer to babysit my kids for a day or night so that I could have some time to myself. I didn't count on him to send his grandchildren birthday cards, or to establish a relationship with them outside the 2-3 times a year he saw them, though we lived just over an hour's drive from each other. I put no pressure on him, asked for nothing, and that seemed to be the ticket.</div>
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And so as my dad lay dying, the life literally seeping from him one pound at a time, I choose to remember that it was he who attended my basketball games and tennis matches when Mom insisted that girls had no business playing sports. It was Dad who played games with me, and patiently waited while I added up my own Yahtzee scores so that I got practice with math functions. It was he who played Scrabble with me and challenged me to spell multisyllabic words, even before I was ten years old. He was a brutal opponent and never let me off the hook. It was Dad who valued language, who instilled in me a love of word play and appreciation of the power of words to move people to be better than they were even a moment ago. It was Dad who tucked me in at night and had me believing that my stuffed animals managed to climb and perch themselves all over my bedroom when I was busy during the day.</div>
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Because of my father, I know that no one is all good or all bad. In literary terms, there are no flat characters. We are all multi-dimensional, with the ability to both crush and nurture, wound and heal, destroy and inspire. I know Dad wishes he had, along his path, made better choices, thought less of himself and more about the world around him. I know he realizes that regret is forever, even if life is not. And I know he loves me as best he knows how, and that I return that love, hard-earned as it has been.</div>
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For now, though, all I can do is wish him safe travels, for he has a trip to make.</div>
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Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-7026474950037691472012-05-15T13:41:00.001-06:002012-05-15T13:46:14.318-06:00Obama: Give Me "Cool" Any Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I just read a blurb in my fave news magazine, <i>The Week</i>, that President Obama (herein referred to as The Big O because I am in that kind of mood) is "cool." So obvious is his coolness factor that Karl Rove's American Crossroads Super PAC has focused its strategy on using it against him, calling him a "celebrity" and attempting to turn coolness into a political liability.</div>
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What the hell is the matter with people? So our country's leader likes music. He likes to sing Al Green tunes and jam with blues musicians on <i>Late Night with Jimmy Fallon</i> and most likely other, less public, venues. He was interviewed on <i>The View</i>, where he gently but astutely corrected Elisabeth Hasselbeck's erroneous assessment that he and Mitt Romney basically held the a similar view of same-sex marriage (tsk, tsk, Liz...journalists should always do their homework or risk looking like amateurs). He also admitted to not knowing anything about the controversial best-selling sexual/bondage/S&M adventure, <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i>, but jokingly assured his lady friends that he would ask his wife about it. The Big O also plays a decent game of hoops and seems to get his groove on by spending time with his daughters. Wow. Shame on him, right? How dare the President of the United States behave like...a regular guy.</div>
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I for one find that quality entirely refreshing. I love that my country's president behaves in ways that might embarrass his kids now and then. Perhaps because I have been both complimented and chastised for acting like the person I am regardless of where I might be or who might be with me, I totally appreciate The Big O's blurry boundary between the private and the public self. I respect the way that both he and his wife have redefined their roles as President and First Lady, not by pointedly <i>doing</i> anything to be different from their predecessors, but precisely by just being themselves. Yes, they have brought a certain flair to the White House. But it's more than that. They have brought a youthfulness, a vitality, a quality I would almost describe as <i>joyful</i> to their duties. Yes, they take their jobs seriously. But no, they're not going to take themselves too seriously. </div>
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I can see why the GOP is a bit unnerved by all this "coolness." Mitt Romney is to being hip what I am to being traditional. He reminds me of a paper doll, whose commitment to various stances is about as flimsy. He will never be cool, hip, groovy. He does not put off a fun-loving vibe. He is, actually, quite wooden. Great teeth, perfect hair, that whole Ted Danson-forehead/eyebrow thing...but I can't imagine him letting go and cutting loose. He seems so tightly wound, so...starched shirty and focused on what everyone thinks of him (though, admittedly, he was not too concerned about that when he drove around with his dog strapped to the roof of his vehicle).</div>
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I am not saying that being cool makes a man an effective president. I <i>am</i> saying that being cool doesn't automatically make him an <i>ineffective</i> president. It should not matter one iota if The Big O wants to jam the blues or if Mitt wants to...flip-flop on the issues. Oh, no wait. That latter part actually does matter. </div>
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My point--and I do have one--is that being cool is not a reason to judge someone negatively. Don't like his politics? His performance? His beliefs? Fine, that's your prerogative. Don't vote for him. But don't hate on him because he leaves Mitt in the dust when it comes to personality.</div>
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This is a guy who created more private sector jobs in 2010 than his predecessor did in all 8 years in office. He extended benefits to same-sex partners of federal employees. He signed the CARD Act to protect consumers from unfair and deceptive credit card practices. He enjoyed a 96.7% success rate in winning congressional votes his first year in office, an unprecedented achievement. His list of accomplishments is long and varied.</div>
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I'm confident that making Mitt Romney look even more stiff is not intentional; it's not a political ploy. It's just a bonus.<br />
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</div>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-21047623823555293232012-03-15T14:10:00.001-06:002012-03-15T14:14:25.311-06:00In Search of the Perfect House<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div id="blogfeeds">It doesn't exist, this perfect house I've built in my mind. </div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">Rick and I have been house hunting now for months. We need to choose one and be done with the search. The only other house I've ever owned was in Windsor, Colorado. I knew it was the house I wanted to raise my kids in the second I set foot in it. There was never any question; 900 Juniper Drive was home.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">Finding the house we want is proving more difficult this time around. For one thing, Rick and I come from vastly different backgrounds. In all honesty, I could live in a primitive log cabin and be perfectly happy. Do I love the jacuzzi?Absolutely. Do I like living on the water? More than I can say. Is having an elevator in my home a necessity? Ummm, no. It moves at the speed of smell, as Max would say.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">But my relationship with luxury is relatively young, and at 47, I know this about myself: I prefer the simplicity that comes with not having much in the way of material things. I would like to have room for a piano. I need a functional, brightly lit home office. And I want--almost more than anything else I could ever think of--a big porch or deck. No one uses a porch more than I do. Seriously...if it has a cover, I will likely live on it. If not, I will likely live on it. That would be me, bundled up in layers, boots and gloves covering my appendages, sitting on the porch swing or rocking chair in the middle of winter. I love the cold. I love the snow. And I love swingin' and rockin'.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">We have toured homes of 5000+ square feet, and we will tour one this weekend that is just under 3000 square feet. We have walked through homes in the woods and homes on the water. We have admired the views from expansive backyards and lamented the absence of wood-burning fireplaces. We have appreciated functional floor plans and questioned decorating tastes (What were they thinking, installing pale pink seashell-shaped sinks?). We have toured a home built in 1901, one constructed in 2007, and many that were erected sometime in between. After seeing about eight houses, we can remember aspects of each one we saw and put them together to build the perfect house for our family.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">But the reality is this: No one house is going to provide everything we'd like to have, be that desire big or small. We can build on or install those aspects of a house we truly want if necessary. We can knock down walls and add skylights. Rick reminds me that what will make our house special is turning it into a home, and he has faith that I can make that happen in any setting. His confidence makes me smile, because I know that what makes a house a home is the sound of laughter, the squabbling of siblings, and the knowledge that within those walls, we are all beloved.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">Yeah, I can do that.</div></div>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-71460310603128929892012-01-04T08:01:00.004-07:002012-01-04T17:08:24.057-07:002011: An Evolutionary Year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div id="blogfeeds">Wow. Time passes so quickly when you're immersed in living. I last posted a column several months ago, though I've thought many times to myself, "Oh! This would make a great essay!" as an intriguing idea or topic coursed through my brain. Unfortunately, I'm still trying to acclimate to waking at 6:00 almost daily; by 9:30pm, I'm wiped out. And those hours in between are spent working, ferrying kids back and forth, fixing meals, shopping for meals, or trying to keep up with this giant house and its many needs. I, a voracious reader, have not cracked open a book in weeks. That's criminal.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">But it's almost my birthday, and that is the time of year at which I look back and take stock of my life. I will turn 47 this weekend. Forty-seven! That's almost 50. That's almost a half-century. That's almost...old. Older. Kind of old. I am grinning as I type because no matter how I word it, 47 is older than I ever thought I would live to be. I'm sure if Dad is reading this, he can remember when I, in all seriousness, declared my certainty that I would not make it past 19 because everyone on the planet annoyed the shit out of me. I am returning that favor to my teenagers these days, who find me obnoxiously annoying simply because I draw breath. I've tried to accommodate them by experimenting with ways to inhale and exhale (read: live) without actually opening my airways. Fun Fact: It's impossible. And so...I annoy them.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">But seriously, as I recollect the past 365 days of my existence, I marvel at how different my life is now compared to then. When we are actually <i>in</i> the moments that comprise our days, it is nearly impossible to recognize those that will eventually be acknowledged as life-altering. But reflection offers crystal-clear magnification; it allows us to view our lives as a sort of slide show. Oh, look! There's Becky and Tavia holding up the Christmas tree that wants so badly to fall over, and hey! Here come's Tuck through the front door to save the day. </div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">Another slide reveals a surprised and visibly elated Tuck as his eclectic group of friends surround him in celebration of his 15th birthday in what Tuck eventually described as the best party he's ever had. </div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">And in another scene, there I am, packing boxes and crying because I'm thoroughly exhausted and torn between needing to move on and not wanting to move my kids from the only home (and community, and friends) they've ever known.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">I watch as the kids and I make the monumentally difficult decision to let go of our beloved Oliver, whose seizures claimed his canine dignity and comfort. We surround him with love there on the vet's office floor as he takes his last breath and gently lays his head in my hand. We say goodbye.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds"></div><div id="blogfeeds">In my mind's eye I see myself growing more frustrated and beleaguered as I try to maintain the house I sacrificed to stay in all those years, the one I lovingly painted and decorated and made into a home. I can't physically do it alone. I can't stay there, being told that it's not really my house anyway, that somehow, all the sweat equity I've accrued over the 12 years means nothing. I weep, for all the disappointment and loss. And then I resolve to keep my splintered family together because whether these kids know it or not, we are strong enough to start over somewhere else and create something wonderful. Different, yes. But wonderful nonetheless.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">My brain cannot think of the most challenging moments without also conjuring memories of those most rewarding and enriching. I see myself in Mexico with Rick, where we slept late and indulged ourselves in whatever way we felt like indulging. Time ceased to exist, and we just enjoyed basking in each other's company. The breathtaking sunsets and crashing waves of the Caribbean didn't hurt, either.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">I see Rick again, reaching out to my kids with patience and a genuine desire to make them feel comfortable. He knows it's a tough crowd. My kids are loving, but they're products of my influence: They say what they think and they aren't exactly in a place of great trust. I watch as he gently enters the sphere of this family in a manner that is at once cautious and yet oddly confident. He recognizes the importance of building relationships with my children; he knows I value their feelings and opinions. He understands that to embrace me is also to embrace my tribe. As weeks pass, I watch them accept him, welcome him, tread easier around him. He is with us when he can be, and we always look forward to his arrival.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">As the year winds to a close, I see us pile into the van: Max, Tuck, Bella, and I (Tavi stayed in Windsor a few days longer), along with our two remaining dogs, Kya and Scout. We drive 2000 miles across the country and I marvel that the trip is so uneventful and, well, smooth. Ok, as smooth as it can be with four people and two dogs in an enclosed, moving vehicle. All in all, that trip could have been a nightmare and was pleasantly not.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">Then there we are, Max having left for foreign shores, the three kids and I searching for our place in this new community. There are good points and bad, and in my most recent poll, I am told by all three that they would not choose to be living in Colorado now. Yes, they miss their friends. Very much. Yes, Bella misses her dad. Yes, school is better in some ways, worse in others. Typical issues that accompany a typical move. I miss my friends too, achingly so. I miss my old office, which was beautiful and bright and the only space I've ever occupied that felt like it was truly and only mine. </div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">But we are adjusting and finding things to appreciate: Bella and I especially love the ocean that sits right outside our front door. We love to go down to our pier, where I relax and she explores, showing me her found treasures. Tavi marvels at how quickly she's made friends, good friends, and how easily she transitioned into her school. Tuck has arguably struggled the most, but he also was the one who left the most behind, being oldest and having just embarked on a music career. But even he has found a core group of friends and has begun performing publicly. And we are all lucky because those people we love visit us. Our dear friends Jennie and Tim stayed for a few days. My sister was here to help us with the move. The girls' dad has visited once. Tavi's friend Ali just spent a week with us, and Tuck's friend Dakota will be here on Friday. I'm pretty certain to see Wendy and Tami here in Vacationland before 2012 comes to a close, and the girls are going back to Colorado for the second time in four months this weekend.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">We are learning a lot. The move, which foisted our little gang into unfamiliar territory, brought us even closer. We have relied on one another in ways we didn't before, and I realized not long ago, as we sat around the dinner table and laughed and sang and talked, that my kids are friends. A stranger remarked on this phenomenon a couple weeks ago, when Max was visiting and we all were out together. She was amazed at how much my kids seem to like each other, and how much fun they had just talking with one another. I think our self-imposed exile from all that we had known made us appreciate each other more, even as we continue to fight and argue about things we one day will look back on and wonder why.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">I also believe that this leap of faith has served to show my children how resilient and strong they are. What they did was not easy, and each has exacted a toll from me in his or her own way. I accept that, because what I essentially did was ask them to trust me, to believe in my wisdom, to blindly go far away. I asked them to think back on their own lives and consider if I had ever let them down or led them astray. I asked them if I'd ever lied to them, or even put my own needs or desires ahead of theirs. They knew I had not, and so they reluctantly took the leap with me. And ever so slowly, their new lives are unfolding. And whaddya know? Those lives aren't too shabby.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">It's been a tough year. A tender year. An evolutionary year. A year that serves to remind that we are never too old to change, to grow, to risk. It's been a year that underscores the value in staying true to oneself, in recognizing a good thing when you see it and holding onto it. A year that reminded me that struggle is part of the glory, and trusting my gut is always the right thing to do. </div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">And so I embark on my 48th year with gusto and a belief that the good I put out into the world is coming back to me in spades. I have the love of a solid man and love him back like nobody's business; my children are good, interesting people whom I adore; I get paid to do something I love, which in turn helps keep my family going; and I find something to laugh about every day. I wake up to the sound of sea gulls every morning and coffee brewing in the kitchen. I regret little and have much to appreciate.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">I am joyful.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div></div>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-26955761476049305502011-10-13T07:38:00.000-06:002011-10-13T07:38:17.056-06:00So This is Maine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I write this sitting on the sofa in what we call the "main room" while listening to Seals & Crofts. To my left is a fireplace, where a fire is roaring. To my right, on the floor, lies Kya, our beloved pit bull-lab; she is keeping my feet warm with her massive body. The view from where I sit is noteworthy: Rain is coming down in sheets, sometimes sideways, other times, all whirly and swooshy. The leaves on the trees that line our side of the inlet are red and orange, gold and green. The leaves on the other side of the water are still green.Wind keeps the scenery ever-shifting as trees sway and the water current swiftly churns. The tide will come in later today, as it always does, and the water line will be higher than usual.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I love being here.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The kids and I have lived here now for six weeks. We are still transitioning, and probably will be for quite some time. We've already had sleepovers, and we are learning shortcuts to the places we like to go. Tuck has found fellow musicians with whom he plays, and he has his first gig this coming Saturday in Portsmouth, NH. The girls and I have already stormed the public library, which is housed in two old buildings across the street from each other. I laughed when I realized that, instead of moving into one new, bigger building, it just adapted to the space it already had and made do. And you know what? It's exactly as it ought to be. Bella thinks the older building should have a ghost who haunts the top floor, where the young adult books are shelved. I agree; it's just that kind of place.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">School has arguably been the most difficult transition for the kids to handle. Tuck went from a high school of 1200 students to one of 280. Within the first week, he knew basically everyone, and boy, did everyone know him. And somehow, before the week was out, kids at the middle school knew Tavia was Tuck's sister, though they don't even share a last name and the schools are not geographically close to one another. Word travels quickly in a small town, and though I had warned the kids that they would be looked upon as minor celebrities (I've been down this road myself, in high school) for at least a while, I don't think they believed me. Now that girls are after Tavia so that they can get to Tuck, I think my kids are getting the picture.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tavi and Bella go to the same school, grades 4-8, student population of around 350 or so. They're already taking NECAPS (pronounced kneecaps), the Maine equivalent of CSAPs. Why they're taken so early in the school year, I don't know. And I've been asked by Bella's writing teacher to come in and make a presentation to the class about the importance of editing, much like I did at Skyview in Windsor. Looks like I will be teaching a creative writing class, too, for 6-8th graders during what they call CREW time, which is the same as a study hall. Academically, the school is decent. Athletically, not so much. Tavi dropped out of cross country because she felt it wasn't coached very well or effectively. Tried to sign up for soccer then, but it was too late. She's considering trying out for basketball now.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As small as we are here in Kittery Point, the kids have found things to occupy their time. Tuck continues with his music and has begun giving me guitar lessons (woo hoo!). How fortuitous is this: Two houses away from ours lives the owner of the York Harbor Inn, a restaurant and lounge. In his basement is a 16-track recording studio, and he gave Tuck an open invitation to take advantage of it whenever he wants. And the lounge has open mic night every Thursday beginning in November. My boy is heading down to Boston this weekend for his first concert at the House of Blues. Has another one to attend on Tuesday. He'll take the bus there and back. I like that he's broadening his autonomy while learning his way around a new city, doing something he loves to do. Life could be worse than being 15 and having the freedom to explore, maybe get lost, find his way, and return home to the comfort of his own family.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tavi is enrolled in two dance classes at the dance academy in Portsmouth. She says they're hard-core and that she's learning a lot. She's considering auditioning for the school's honor choir, which joins other regional honor choirs to form one big group, and then they perform all over the place. She has also joined the school's yearbook staff. Come spring, she wants to audition for the regional theater troupe. Tavia? Drama? Really?</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We arrived too late for Bella to sign up for the traveling soccer league (there weren't enough participants to have a local rec team), but she plans to sign up in the spring. She will begin violin lessons soon, as next week we make a trip into New Hampshire to fit her with a violin rental. Her interest in writing continues to develop, and she has joined the school's newspaper staff as a reporter.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As for me, I spent the first three weeks meeting just about every repairman in the area. Seriously, there were so many things that needed to be fixed in this house, I felt like Shelly Long in that movie "The Money Pit." I opened the mailbox and the door fell off. Rick flushed the toilet and nothing happened. The steam shower didn't steam, and the fireplace didn't light. To fix one thing sometimes meant damaging something else, so then that something else had to be fixed. It was unceasing. When things finally settled, I had deadlines, so that was two weeks of little else but work, and the last files for a book I'm writing were turned in this week. So here I am. </span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There are many things to appreciate about my life here in rural Maine. Living on the ocean suits me well. I love to head down to our dock when the tide is coming in and the sun is shining and just...be. The water, the geese, the gentle sounds of the trees, the tugboats in the harbor, the scent...altogether, it offers a sense of solitude I find at once comforting and exhilarating. I appreciate the warm welcome my family has received--at Open House at the high school, several folks came up to me (admittedly, after staring at me for a while), shook my hand, and introduced themselves by telling me which house they lived in ("I live in the red house," "I'm in the yellow house next door," etc). I love how everyone here on our little hill has dogs, and no one cares if your dog visits them. So Kya and Scout have lots of friends, and it's kind of a canine free-for-all. I dig the weather. When it rains, it really rains. We've even already had flash floods and power outages (but seriously, what is this, compared to a tornado?). And when the sun shines, it reflects off the water with a brilliance that takes my breath away. Gratitude. It fills me with gratitude. </span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Other things, I'll have to get used to. I know many people well enough to say hello, but I don't have any real friends here (I know: it's been only 6 weeks). I miss my friends in Windsor more than words can express. I miss the connection, the being known and knowing them. It feels like so much work to start a new friendship at this stage of my life. Someone is going to really have to be something special for me to invest in. I'm not as generous with my time as I once was. On a more shallow note, I miss authentic Mexican food and melon margaritas from Guadalajara (the restaurant). I miss the convenience of being five minutes from the grocery store. Sidewalks. There are no continuous sidewalks here, and the roads are so narrow that you could high-five someone in a passing car without having to fully extend your arm. I'm not kidding.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So like all periods of transition and change, this one unravels one moment, one event at a time. The kids and I aren't always alone, as Rick comes in every other weekend, sometimes more often. His visits with us in Colorado were noteworthy because they were sporadic; the dynamic of the family would shift, even if only slightly. Now, though, he just seamlessly fits in...life continues as it does during the week, only now we have one more person to talk to, laugh with, consider. His presence is a great support for me on so many levels. His thoughtful input, his willingness to treat my kids as his own, his easy rapport with them...these are the things I've come to cherish. </span></div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And for myself, this feeling of being truly seen unleashes in me a veritable tidal wave of emotion I didn't know I possessed. It owns me, and I willingly give myself to it. Because in this life, I have developed a strength borne of necessity, of the desire to survive and thrive. It is an unyielding strength, and I have relied upon it for as long as I can remember. But the strength Rick encourages in me is flexible. It builds on a sense of communion, of togetherness, of trust. The glory of it brings me to my knees, and it's just one more thing I add to my ever-growing list of things for which I am grateful.</span></div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So. This is Maine.</span></div></div>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-27344000172824447662011-08-17T08:56:00.000-06:002011-08-17T08:56:37.818-06:00Packing Up, Taking Stock, Moving On: Thoughts on Leaving Home<div id="blogfeeds">My house has always been cluttered. I share an intimate love-hate relationship with "stuff," and though I've tried to change my evil ways, I have never succeeded. Now my stuff is in boxes, neatly labeled and stacked along the perimeter of rooms. Except when it's lying in the middle of the floor, or stuffed into bags to be put in the garage and unpacked later this week for our yard sale. One of my favorite things, my simple pleasures in life, is to walk through my home at night, when children are asleep and lights are dim. I have taken comfort in checking doors to be sure they're locked, in folding that last load of laundry (alas, never putting it away until I need an empty laundry basket), in replenishing the dogs' food and water bowls. Before bed, I blow out candles, kiss the dogs, turn out the lights.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">To walk through this house at night now is to put one's life at risk. Scissors, tape rolls, boxes both full and flattened litter every square inch. Thumb tacks, nails, even stray pieces of (unchewed) gum threaten my bare feet. I am leaving Windsor; I am leaving this house I've called home for the past 13 years.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">I never dreamed I'd be leaving this house until Bella graduated high school. I fell in love with the house itself the first time Wes and I walked through it in 1998. I admired it for its practicality. I loved the open floor plan and imagined watching my kids playing in the backyard while I cooked supper. I liked the idea of playing music on the stereo in the family room and being able to hear it upstairs. I craved the sunlight that I knew would pour through the living room window each morning. I could easily envision raising my family within these walls, and so I set out to make it a home.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">We covered those stark white walls in vivid colors: periwinkle, fire-engine red, autumn leaf orange, sunshine yellow, lime green, cerulean blue, turquoise, aqua, terra cotta, purple. This house is a veritable palette of color, and it loyally reflects the personalities of the people who have inhabited it all these years. I painted furniture--wood benches, kitchen chairs, children's bookcases, chairs, stools and chests of drawers. I decorated the walls with kids' artwork and family photos, and my kitchen cupboards became bulletin boards for pages ripped from coloring books, messages of "I love you, mom," and other youthful masterpieces. Books filled every room, and my children grew up understanding that, with books, you never have to be bored or lonely.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">As the kids grew, our home became a place in which their friends came to hang out. Just this past summer, it was nothing to find a half-dozen--often times, twice that--kids in Tuck's room (sometimes, when he wasn't even here) or gathered on the back patio, just talking, laughing, and generally kickin' it. Some of Tavi's friends have basically grown up here, so much so that when Tuck came through the door just last week and saw one of them at the kitchen table, he asked, "Do you live here now?" And he was serious. </div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">Kids who spent a lot of time here over the years were treated exactly as I treated my own. They got hugs, food, advice. They heard me yell when I got fed up, and they knew they were expected to respect the rules of our home or face the consequences. They heard me play piano and sing, lose complete control in fits of laughter, say bad words, apologize. Tuck has, over the years, lamented the fact that I don't act differently when his friends are over. He would prefer I have two personalities: one for public and one for private. That's never been my gig, though, so he's had to learn to deal with that. And when all is said and done, I believe that the kids who have returned to our home time and again know they are welcome, that in some cases, I dearly love them. As I contemplate the days ahead and know I will not see the faces of my children's friends, I feel a genuine sense of loss. They have been a major part of my own life.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">A house is just a house; I know that. It is because I made it a home that it matters and means something. But still, I struggle with leaving this physical structure. This is where two of my four children took their first steps. In this family room, the kids and I would push the furniture to the side, crank up the stereo, and dance like there was no tomorrow. Sometimes, other people's kids would join us in our joyful silliness. Scores of birthdays were celebrated in this house and the backyard. How many birthday candles were blown out at this kitchen table? These walls once vibrated with the sounds of Max learning to play piano and baritone, of Tavi's singing and learning to play piano, of Tuck learning to play guitar and trombone. There was nothing I liked more than to be in my upstairs office and hear Max and Tuck playing guitar and bass and sometimes even singing as the sounds drifted up through the floor vents. The bedroom walls brought comfort as I read bedtime stories with my children each night before tucking them in and telling them one final time that day how very much I loved them.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">The memories aren't all good, of course. The master bedroom is where Wes and I lost our baby boy, and where I very nearly lost my own life in 1999. I sat at the kitchen table in disbelief as my sister hyperventilated over the phone, screaming that our mom was dead, in 2004. It was in these rooms--and yet so far beyond them, as well--that my relationship with Wes fell apart, into such a state of disrepair that there was no salvation for us. And it was here that I had to tell my children what that meant for them. </div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">And consequently, it is within these walls that the kids and I learned how to regroup and continue growing as a family in which the dynamic had changed but the love remained. So I feel a profound sadness at leaving this place that has seen countless milestones, been home to the people I love with a fierceness unparalleled by anything else I know. And yet I leave it also with a sense of excitement, of hope, of security and certainty that I have never known before in my life. I know that home is something carried in the heart. It is created and nurtured, not simply found. It is not so much a where, but a who, a communion of hearts and souls.</div><div id="blogfeeds"><br />
</div><div id="blogfeeds">I guess, then, I'm leaving home to go . . . home.</div>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-36228293780064056222011-06-27T12:40:00.012-06:002011-06-27T14:42:42.907-06:00Do You Know Who I Am? I'm the Bejeweled, Long-Haired Cheese...the One in the Mini Dress<div id="blogfeeds">As of this past Saturday, I am the mother of three teenagers and one "tween." Technically, one of those teenagers is an adult, but that's a term loosely used on any 18-year-old, I don't care how mature or wise he may be.<br />
<br />
</div>Three teenagers.<br />
<br />
Three!<br />
<br />
How the hell did this happen? Well, I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> how it happened. But I mean...<span style="font-style: italic;">how</span>? I am 46 years old, clearly old enough to claim these kids as my own. But I don't <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> like I should be able to claim them. Just this morning, Tavi was chastising me for buying this very cool, multi-colored peace sign bracelet cuff. It screamed my name as I did my best to walk by and ignore it in the store. But seriously--that bracelet belongs on my arm. And it was under $5, which I interpreted as a sign from God that it should go home with me. Tavia informed me that I should give it to her, because I'm "way too old" to wear it. She did not, however, deny it's cuteness.<br />
<br />
I remember my mom telling me that once a woman gets to a certain age (can't remember what that predetermined age was), long hair should be cut and no longer worn with ribbons adorning it. My hair is still long. And I still wear ribbons in it. And flowers. And flowered ribbons. I'm also partial to peace signs and anything reminiscent of the 60s, like go-go boots. I not-so-secretly covet a pair of shiny white go-go boots. And a mini-dress with bell sleeves made of some kind of groovy-patterned fabric. I can't help it. It's just who I am. I don't really care if I'm 60, 70, 80...if I want to tie my hair up with a pink ribbon and sashay around town in go-go boots, I'm damn well going to do it. So get the hell out of my way, people. Or at least stop and give me a ride. On your motorcycle, 'cause that's another thing I'll never get too old for. And the faster, the better.<br />
<br />
But I digress. It's just the three kids and me living here now. I am outnumbered 3 to 1. And in any situation involving Tuck or Tavi, they gang up on me and take up each other's cause. Doesn't matter what it is, I am the enemy who must be brought down. Their ability to collaborate and cooperate is impressive; I wish they'd use that skill to do housework or wash the van. Or rub my feet. <span style="font-style: italic;">Something</span> that might benefit me in some way. Alas, their focus is always on "making a point" or "proving" me wrong. Often, it's just on arguing for the sake of arguing.<br />
<br />
I remember feeling as if I always had a point to make. That lasted until I was about 20. Then I gradually stopped caring if people agreed with me. In fact, if too many people agreed with my point of view, I thought I must be wrong. Because the cheese stands alone, and I liked being the cheese.<br />
<br />
Now, in my late 40s, I still don't feel the need to get people to agree with me. Add to that a distinct lack of needing approval for whatever I might do or say, think or feel, and I've come to a satisfyingly liberating stage of my life. Is this what most women in their 40s feel like? I would truly like to hear from any of you, because in my 20s, I thought getting older would be awful. But now that I AM older, I actually prefer it.<br />
<br />
The writer in me appreciates the irony in that concept. The mom in me relishes the idea that my kids feel sorry for me because I'm OLD. The woman in me just wants those freakin' go-go boots.Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-64006413710060358482011-03-04T10:12:00.009-07:002011-06-27T13:34:13.269-06:00So I Wrote This Book...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yxwwMhs3RLI/TXEuhLD5PFI/AAAAAAAAAHU/sGXTHiV7_x8/s1600/Front-Cover-72ppi.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yxwwMhs3RLI/TXEuhLD5PFI/AAAAAAAAAHU/sGXTHiV7_x8/s200/Front-Cover-72ppi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580292560728439890" border="0" /></a><br /><p id="blogfeeds">In April of 2009, I was contacted via email by a guy named Travis Thompson. Travis had a story to tell. A BIG story. A loooooong story. A fascinating story, really, about a Mormon kid who made good despite having an extermination order on his head, witnessing his uncle's violent death, surviving the death of his own beloved 5-year-old daughter, and experiencing the inherently risky life of a 19th-century adventurer on the American frontier.</p><p id="blogfeeds">This pioneer's name was Perry A. Burgess, and if you're at all familiar with Steamboat Springs, you've heard of him, or at least his last name. It permeates that town. Maybe you've ridden his ski lift, or attended gatherings in one of his meeting rooms. Perhaps you've visited the Tread of Pioneers museum (which just happens to sit on the site that was once his backyard) or strolled along Burgess Promenade, which enjoys views of Burgess Creek. Seriously. The dude is everywhere.</p><p id="blogfeeds">So Travis asks me if I'd be interested in writing Perry's story. Only a fool would have declined that offer, and come August, Travis and his wife Becky were seated at my kitchen table, along with--literally--a suitcase of research and books and pamphlets and photos and well, stuff.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Initially, Travis tried to write Perry's story himself. He got to page 25 and realized this was not an undertaking for a novice. Travis is a whiz-bang IT guy; he is a technical systems god. Which makes him intelligent. Which allowed him to realize that he needed a professional writer. That he chose me was sheer luck. But when he and Becky arrived at the house, I greeted them believing the information he had shared with me already in an email: He had written those 25 pages and figured he needed another 50 or so.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Yeah, right.</p><p id="blogfeeds">After a couple hours pass and Travis is exuberantly explaining all the tangents of Perry's life story (Travis could not sit; he stood and paced, sat and fidgeted), it dawns on me that this will most definitely not be a 75-page manuscript. And boy, was I spot-on with that prophecy. The final book, published in late October 2010, was 540 pages.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Yes, that's right: 540 pages.</p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-style: italic;">Beyond the Land of Gold: The Life & Times of Perry A. Burgess</span> took more than a year of my life to research and write. Travis would send me outlines of what he thought each chapter might look like. Now, I use the term "outlines" loosely, because in my book, an outline is just that: a vague guideline. Travis's outlines were sometimes 13 typed pages long, single-spaced. I'm not kidding.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Both of us were learning as we went along. I don't think Travis had any idea how this book would take over his life, and I had to learn how to write using a process far different from the one I used to write any of my previously published books. I guess, at the end of the day, Travis and I weren't just developing a book; we were building a relationship.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Creating a book or building a relationship...either is a monumental endeavor. Try doing both simultaneously. Oh, and I should mention that while this was going on, I was extricating myself from a 12-year relationship with my daughters' dad. It was not a smooth ending. Toss into the mix the reappearance of a high school boyfriend who, 28 years later, was even more intriguing and wonderful than he was at age 16, and you can imagine the emotional rollercoaster I was riding. And there's the fact that I watched as my first-born child graduated high school, went off to college, and turned 18 (in that order); it was almost more than I could bear. All the while, my focus was on keeping life as drama-free as possible for my 3 kids who remained at home. It was no easy task. Most days, I felt hugely inadequate in one way or another.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">All things considered, 2010 was both one of the worst and the absolute best of my 46 years. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Because I am immensely proud of <span style="font-style: italic;">Beyond the Land of Gold.</span> Just last night, we found out that it is a finalist in the 2011 Colorado Independent Publishers Association Evvy & Technical Awards. They haven't yet announced the finalists for the content/editorial awards in Biography, Memoir, or History (all of which we entered), but the book has made it to the final round in Cover Design, Illustration, and Printing. I am honored, and await word on the finalist selection for the other 3 categories.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Since last fall, I've traveled to Boulder, Steamboat Springs and Craig, where Travis and I made presentations about the book...our audiences were gracious and enthusiastic. We've had book signings in Denver and Cheyenne, and have another planned for May in Longmont. <span style="font-style: italic;">Beyond the Land of Gold</span> is carried by the Tattered Cover bookstore, and believe me, that's not an easy venue to get into for lesser-known writers or publishers. We're hoping to travel this summer--Utah, Montana--to further promote the Mormon and gold rush aspects of the book. In short, the book has allowed me to broaden my horizons as a professional, to visit places I might otherwise never see, meet people I wouldn't otherwise get to know.</p><p id="blogfeeds">But it has also enriched my personal life. I've gotten to know Travis and Becky Thompson, two wonderful people who recognized the value in what they had and have taken great pains to bring Perry's story to light. While it was me who put the pieces together to provide a comprehensive and clear picture, it was the Thompsons' relentless pursuit of information that made the writing possible. They put more than 10 years of their lives into this story. That's impressive. And the resulting book provides a heretofore missing piece of American Frontier history. To have made 2 new friends on the road to publishing a book? Priceless.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I remain vigilant in my dedication to creating a stable and secure home for my children. There have been some bumps in the road, but nothing we haven't been able to steer around or just completely jump over. I'm one of those lucky moms who has kids who know they will be just fine no matter where they land. I do have two teenagers in the house, however, so...well, I am often outwitted and always outnumbered. I am one tough cookie, though, and I will survive.</p><p id="blogfeeds">As for the high school boyfriend, well, let's just say I love being older and wiser. I love that he never let go of the idea of me. And I love him.</p><p id="blogfeeds">So yeah. I wrote a book.</p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">(To learn more about the book or to purchase a copy, please visit <a href="http://burgessdiary.com/">www.burgessdiary.com</a>.)</span></span><br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-91751197894497795742011-02-22T08:51:00.004-07:002011-02-22T09:30:15.995-07:00Just How Similar Are We?<p id="blogfeeds">Writers write for different reasons. Most of us, if pressed for an answer, will say we can't <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> write. It's like exhaling; we must do it.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I write to make sense of my world. I've been writing since I was a young girl, when it became clear to me that there wasn't a lot of logic or predictability or even, sometimes, sanity, in my world. I wrote poetry and journal entries. As a tween, I suspected my mom was reading my diary, so I wrote a series of, shall we say, colorful entries regarding boys. Total fabrications, mind you, but it was the only surefire way I could tell if she was indeed invading my privacy. I came home from school one day to have my face slapped, hard. Yep. She was reading my diary.</p><p id="blogfeeds">At any rate, writing helps me think through both the tedious and the monumental. It allows me to cope, escape, confront. As an adult, I've written about my mother's struggle with mental illness, her death and my ensuing grief, the death of my son, the birth of my children, the raising of those children, my experience with divorce and late-in-life discovery of genuine, reciprocated love. I have also written about the more mundane: breastfeeding in public, children's carsickness, Spongebob Squarepants, politics, human nature...there is little I haven't covered.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I just finished reading a book about language and, because it is a cultural convention, we assume it reflects the culture in which we live. But there is a strong argument for the idea that individual languages actually <span style="font-style: italic;">shape</span> the culture in which we live and how experience it. Because language and words are the tools of my trade, this idea fascinates me. It might not do much for you, though, so have no fear--that's not what this column is about. But the idea did get me thinking...</p><p id="blogfeeds">How much of our lives are based on the assumption that our experiences are shared? I don't mean shared in the sense that, say, when we go to a concert, there are a thousand other folks sharing that experience. I'm talking shared in that, what I see, you see. What I understand, you understand. How much of this sort of daily analysis is based on assumption?</p><p id="blogfeeds">For example, I was in my 30s before I realized I experience simple activities such as hearing music and tasting food in a way that is not considered "normal." I live with synesthesia, a condition in which the real information of one sense is accompanied by the perception of another. For example, I "hear" color. Every song has a color. Whether I'm merely listening to music or performing it on the piano or vocally, color accompanies every song. It's the same with food. All food has color to me; I literally "taste" color. Smells, too...each one presents itself to me in color.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Now, having not known that this is abnormal (estimate of synesthetes range from 1 in 200 to 1 in 10,000), and having experienced life in this way since I can remember, I naturally assumed everyone I knew shared this phenomenon. Then I had to research an article I was writing, and I came across this information and thought, "Holy shit! This is ME!" and that thought was immediately followed by absolute shock. So it's not normal to view life through the lens of an acid flashback? Your world is not psychedelic with colors like mine is?<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I was left pondering the idea that all along, this world has shown itself to me in a way that is more vivid, more intense, than it is to most people. I got to wondering if this sensory issue was all-encompassing for me. I mean, if someone touches me, do I feel the same sensation as you do when someone touches you? I just always thought I was sensually vigilant. Turns out I am, instead, a scientific anomaly. Supposedly, this sensory crossfire is not supposed to be able to occur in the human brain. Huh.</p><p id="blogfeeds">This idea of assumptions then led me to contemplate our daily life experience. We humans assume so very much of others. How much of our miscommunication and misunderstanding is borne of the assumption that we share an experience and so must share the results of that experience? How many marriages and friendships have ended over the inherent (mis)understanding that the other person's response to any given situation(s) was wrong simply because it was not our understanding? A simple concept, but incredibly far-reaching.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I guess, at the end of the day, it comes down to judgment. When we judge, we analyze and determine the value or worth of any given act according to our own personal template. But wow. Those templates vary so greatly, yet we want--perhaps need--them to be one-size-fits-all.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Thing is, they aren't. And they never will be.<br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-55398801066416056912011-01-06T13:05:00.006-07:002011-01-06T17:06:11.926-07:00Of White Lights & Wisdom<p id="blogfeeds">In two days, I will celebrate my 46th birthday.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I can't look at that number without chuckling because it is the same age my mom once was, only then, it was as ancient as Mesopotamia to me. Now *I* will be the bearer of 16,790 days of life experience, and yet I feel remarkably...not old.</p><p id="blogfeeds">2010 was a year of change for me, and more often than ever before, I'd find myself pondering my life, my choices, my circumstances. Like most 46-year-old women, I have teeny white Christmas lights strung across the headboard of my bed. I like to lie there at night, looking at them, thinking. At first, I could only think about how cool those lights were. Everything looks better--dreamier--in the soft glow of white Christmas lights. It's true. Scientific studies have proven it. Now I have too.</p><p id="blogfeeds">But as I grew accustomed to having a purple bedroom with white Christmas lights on the headboard and vibrantly dyed Mexican sarongs hanging in the windows, my thoughts turned elsewhere, to more...grown-up musings. And eventually, I realized I was deconstructing my life as it has unfolded thus far. And here's what I know:</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know I've done the best I could. I think even as a young girl, I approached everything I did with 100% commitment to do it to the best of my ability. Whether it was my nature or a learned attitude or a bit of both, I can say I take great solace in the certainty that even if I didn't always make the choice a more prudent me would have made, I did, at least, dedicate myself to that choice and seeing it reach its potential.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know I've grown and stretched beyond my comfort zone more in times of strife and conflict than in times of general peace. I've come to recognize the blessings inherent in even the most agonizing tribulations, and knowing those blessings serve a purpose makes forging through the challenges worthwhile.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know I am one stubborn mother...and sister, friend, lover, etc. My iron will is a double-edged sword that both protects and at times wounds me. I've learned to wield it more carefully as I've aged.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know I need very little to be happy. But I also know I can be happy with more. It's comforting to be able to straddle that line between struggle and abundance and feel at ease on either side.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know that I deserve more than I've historically allowed myself to have. In every way.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know that my children are so much a part of me--and I of them--that though we may one day live apart, we will always be together. They are the best things I've ever done with my time, energy, and love.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know I'm no picnic. I'm opinionated. I can be loud. I am outspoken and don't need anyone's approval. I am not always diplomatic and I know how to use words as weapons. I don't let people inside my life easily and there will always be secrets I don't tell even those closest to me. At times I am remarkably vulnerable even as I stand strong in the face of great challenge. I protect my heart because it has been broken so often, always by those who claim to love me most. But at 46, I know there's more room <span style="font-style: italic;">in</span> my heart for love precisely <span style="font-style: italic;">because</span> it has been so boldly broken.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I also know I am worth the effort. I am simple yet complex, a free spirit who is demanding in some ways yet refreshingly low maintenance in others. I believe in the goodness of people and strive to find it, even if it brings me to my knees. I love fiercely and passionately, and support those I hold most dear even if I can't agree with what they're doing. I know joy and I share it without reservation. I believe in promises I've been given until they're broken. Then I believe again. I laugh a lot and never pass up a chance to let those people I love know how dear they are to me.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">And most recently, I know that being independent doesn't necessarily mean standing alone. It doesn't mean I can't lean on someone when my own legs feel wobbly. I can be independent and still reach out for that hand to hold, that whisper to guide, that look to reassure. I can, finally, accept as my own the love I have always been willing to give.</p><p id="blogfeeds">So. Happy Birthday to me.<br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-13803396398752594962010-11-05T12:22:00.005-06:002010-11-06T15:46:01.207-06:00Why Do We Kill People Who Kill People?<p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" id="blogfeeds">I'm thinking about the death penalty and have been for weeks.</p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" id="blogfeeds">I don't know why this is so, I only know that it is. And then my most recent issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Utne Reader</span> magazine was delivered. After letting it sit on the kitchen table with approximately 237 other items that don't belong there for about a week, I opened it one afternoon while eating lunch. And there before me lay not one but two articles on capital punishment. OK, Universe. I'm listening.</p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" id="blogfeeds">I am not superstitious, but I do take this as a sign that I am supposed to be thinking about this topic. So I finally let it take hold of my mind. While preparing dinner, I'm thinking about state-sanctioned murder. While folding laundry, my thoughts turn to parents of victims and criminals alike. While soaking in a hot bubble bath, I close my eyes and wonder why.</p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" id="blogfeeds">Why, if capital punishment is justice served, do I struggle with it so?</p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">On the days I entertain the idea that maybe society has legitimate use for the death penalty, I am focused on the idea of punishment. If someone takes the life of someone else, he should pay a price. I was raised in a home that was big on retribution. If we kids did something we shouldn't, we would be punished. That usually meant some form of physical pain. And as I would hide in my closet listening to my sister scream as our dad hit her, my little mind would wonder how this was helping my sis in any way. Oh, that's right. It wasn't </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">supposed</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> to help her. It was supposed to "teach her a lesson." Huh. Some lesson: If you do something you shouldn't, the people who claim to love you will hurt you.</span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We are a society that loves its retribution, though. Nathaniel Hawthorne's Hester Prynne fell in love with a minister and when their love became physical, she was outcast and forced to wear a scarlet "A" on her breast, just in case the neighbors didn't already realize she was an adulterer. And what punishment was served up to her lover? Nothing. That's because punishment is never fair, and that includes the death penalty. It is applied somewhat arbitrarily, to people who are not always guilty. And so innocent people are put to death. Which means instead of one innocent victim of a crime, there are two. </span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">How is that justice?</span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">The logical part of me then considers the cost of life imprisonment. We like to think that it's cheaper to just kill someone rather than pay to let them live out their lives in prison. But that's not reality. The reality of capital punishment in this country is that it costs 2 to 5 times more to execute someone than it does to keep him alive. This is due to the numerous appeals and legal processes involved. It's a criminal waste of money and resources in and of itself. </span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I might actually be able to justify a judiciously imposed death penalty if it did, in fact, serve as a deterrent to would-be murderers. But there is no evidence that it does and plenty of research to suggest that it doesn't come close to serving that purpose. In fact, since 1990, the murder rate in states that inflict the death penalty has been consistently higher than in those that don't (according to the FBI and census figures). That means the death penalty has the opposite effect as intended. 'Nuff said.</span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">There is, of course, the "eye for an eye" argument as bolstered by that bestseller, the Holy Bible. I don't buy into that logic for a minute. Even as a child, that seemed suspicious to me. I've read many accounts of families of murder victims who did not experience the relief or sense of closure they expected to upon the death of the person allegedly responsible for killing their loved ones. And here's where I try to truly imagine how I would feel if someone took the life of one of my kids. Would I want that person to die? Would that make me feel better, or somehow repay my child? The answer I always come back to is No. And it may very well tarnish every memory I have of that beloved child because I would never be able to separate in my mind my child from his or her murderer. </span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I can't help but wonder, too, why we don't televise state-sanctioned murder if it's really a good thing. If we truly believe in its innate usefulness and righteousness, let's put it out there for all the world to see. But no, we limit the viewing audience and do it behind locked doors. That alone gives me pause.</span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I understand that we are human and therefore subject to feelings of hatred and desire for revenge. But that same humanness also makes us inherently compassionate, even if we sometimes quell that trait in favor of something we deem more valuable or worthy. I don't have an answer. I only have intuition and gut responses. I have intelligence and the ability to reason and follow logic. I guess, at the end of the day, that's what we all have to do.</span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Sometimes, I let my heart lead me. Other times, I obey my brain. But here, in the case of capital punishment, I have to call on both and listen very closely to their responses. And then I have to decide for myself what I believe is just. I think we all must do that.</span><p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Perhaps Dante said it best when he wrote, "The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in time of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality."</span>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-45057602317069760472010-10-20T08:42:00.005-06:002010-10-20T09:33:01.627-06:00Think You're in Control? Think Again.<p id="blogfeeds">I was talking with a friend over coffee the other morning. We share a common situation in that both of our eldest children have gone off to college this fall. It's a new experience for us, and one we acknowledge as bittersweet. It's great to have someone to make this parallel journey with me.</p><p id="blogfeeds">At one point Deb said, "I realized this last time that he's never really coming home again." Simple statement, but wow, did that pack a punch. She's right. She put words to this feeling I've had every time I've seen Max since he moved out in August: He will visit and find his comfort here, but he will never truly come home again.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">There was a time not too long ago when this thought would have sent me reeling. Max is, after all, the child of mine I have spent the most time with. I had 3 1/2 years of him to myself, and he had those same years of not having to share me. He was the king and I was his queen, he told me when he was three years old. "What's Daddy?" I naively asked. "Sadly," my little boy replied, "he's just a knight." And truly, that about summed it up. Max has always been my kid. We belonged together.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">But to go from literally wearing your child in a sling on your chest or hip and co-sleeping with him to nervously watching him navigate playground equipment to getting a quick kiss goodbye as he heads out the door with friends to hugging him one last time as he tells you it's time to leave so he can organize his dorm (and for the record, I'm not sure he's done that yet, two months into the school year) is a veritable lifetime. It is a constant push and pull, a see-saw, at times a merry-go-round that doesn't feel so merry. In fact, the older I get, the more that motion makes me want to vomit.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">So when reality kicks me in the ass as Deb utters her observation, I look to the heavens (I do that whenever I'm in the midst of an epiphany, which seems to be quite often these days) and recognize the raw truth in that proclamation. And I instantly think how natural that idea feels to me now. Of course he won't come home. Of course he's a visitor. That's how it should be.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And, given all the other changes in my life as of late, I thought about how the idea of natural progression translates to each of those circumstances. For instance, I am now the only parent living in this house with my three remaining kids. I'm it. If it gets done, I do it. If it needs paying for, I pay it. If someone's yelling, it's probably me. If it warrants a laugh, I'm the one doubled over, gasping for air and worried that I'll wet myself because I can't control my snorting. I am Woman.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And it feels right. In my gut and in my mind, this living with my children alone is the way it should be. For now. I can't know what the future may bring, and I'm not concerned about it. I actually haven't ever been too adept at looking far ahead. I can plan about a month in advance and that's about as good as it gets. I have always been a live for the moment girl, and that life plan so many of my peers grew up with in their heads? It never existed for me. Made for a life of surprises, but it also afforded me surprising flexibility and the attitude of "OK, so this is where we are. Let's do this thing." As a result, I've got four kids who aren't rattled by much. If you know them, you know the boys are so laid back you have to check them for a pulse. And the girls have sunny dispositions (though at 12, Tavi is more often at turns dramatic and brooding these days).<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Then there's my new book. For over a year, the research and writing of that book consumed my work schedule. Published in late September, the book has garnered a lot of interest in our region and beyond, into Montana and Utah. As a result, I am traveling to promote the book through book signings and slide presentations. It's an unexpected pleasure. But it's a nightmare logistically in terms of figuring out how to do that aspect of my job and see that my kids are taken care of. And that's a worry I never had before. I've always been home. I work where I live. Now I go on the road and hope I've instilled in my kids the security to know they can step up and take care of at least some of their needs on their own. I hope they use common sense when making choices that I'm not around to help support or discourage. I hope...that I've done my job as their mom well.</p><p id="blogfeeds">But even this, this traveling and separating from my kids now and then--this too, feels right. It's exactly what I should be doing. And I find solace in that knowledge. It's a new day. Wes and I are no longer together; Max has moved out; the family that was 6 is now 4 and we're finding our way. It's not always easy, but it's also not too challenging. And I chalk that up to the idea that this is so because it is right.</p><p id="blogfeeds">At the end of the day, we aren't in control. We can make choices and decisions. We can exercise free will and live with the consequences. But to believe we are in control is an illusion. Once I accepted that idea--and I had to grieve the death of my child before I could--so much of life became opportunity. For joy, growth, learning, celebrating.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Change is inevitable. What we do in the face of it makes all the difference in the world. It's kind of like giving birth: You go through intense pain at times, but the reward is so uncompromisingly fabulous that the pain is becomes a distant memory.<br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-56489293938447146192010-10-03T08:13:00.004-06:002010-10-03T09:28:47.451-06:00Choosing Happiness<p id="blogfeeds">I've got happiness on the brain these days. Maybe it's because I'm happy in a way I've never truly been for any consistent period of time. No, that's not right. I am happy in a way I've never been. Period. Which is not to say I've never been happy, because it is my nature to be happy. I am happy even when circumstances are not optimal. I am, at the core, a remarkably happy person, despite the fact that I spent a childhood--including those all-important formative years--in an atmosphere more consistently conducive to anxiety than to bliss. </p><p id="blogfeeds">Genetically speaking, I am even predisposed to suffer from anxiety and mental disorder. My brother experiences anxiety attacks; my beloved sis seems to fall victim to depression. My mother lived with serious mental illness, which inflicted its wickedness on the whole family. It was literally like living with an invisible monster; we never knew where it was lurking or when it would attack. That kind of dysfunction breeds distrust and a serious level of angst for all those who endure its wrath.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And as a small child, I was anxious. I was prone to stomachaches and even obsessive-compulsive disorder-like symptoms. I would think awful thoughts about my mom--they were uncontrollable, really--and then capitulate to the mind-numbing guilt those thoughts imposed upon my young psyche. How could I think evil thoughts about the woman who is supposed to love me more than anyone else in the world? But then, how could that woman do and say such hurtful things if she loved me? I could not break free of that cycle of taking responsibility for her choices (at the time, I had no idea she was officially ill) and feeling like I was a bad child, that I in some way caused her to behave like she did. From my earliest memories, I remember that unceasing torment of feeling unworthy and yet not knowing how to fix the situation. I would never be good enough, and yet I couldn't figure out what "good" meant because Mom was so inconsistent in her responses and reactions.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And then somewhere along the way, I made a conscious decision not to let her break me. I was still young...not even in double digits. Where the strength and determination not to let my circumstances dictate who I would be came from, I can't say. I don't even remember the moment I made that choice. I just know that I made it. I knew that I was not going to give up my one shot at being happy simply because it seemed it was my destiny to grow up in turmoil.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Maybe I was able to do that because deep inside, I always knew Mom loved me. Her actions and words may have indicated otherwise, but children are wise; they see and understand what is not apparent. I see that all the time in my youngest daughter. Although her illness was not officially confirmed for me until I was in my 20s, perhaps I understood that Mom was not always in control of herself. Maybe I saw that finding her own happiness was a major struggle for her. I don't know. What I do know is that my determination to be happy allowed me to get to age 45 and feel--truly believe--I've had a wonderful life so far.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And it just gets better. I am happy--profoundly grateful--for small things: the smell of rain, the moments of raucous laughter I share with my children, the opportunity to sit on my patio swing in the morning while I drink my coffee and watch the birds at the feeder. I love waking under mounds of blankets, the cast of light in this western sky around 6:00 each evening, the taste of ice-cold water as it slides down my throat. I consider it a blessing to be able to fill my refrigerator with enough food to keep my family comfortable, and I never underestimate the power of a kind word to strangers and friends alike. The feel of my children's arms around me as they hug me goodbye or the urgency of my man's mouth on mine when we are reunited after weeks of separation...these moments are what bring me immense joy. They make me happy even as other circumstances might pose challenges and difficulties.</p><p id="blogfeeds">There is no doubt in my mind that happiness comes from within. You can't buy it, and if you spend your life searching for it in other people, you'll be left with only a lifetime of disappointment and emptiness. Being happy within the context of the life you have been given is a choice; wanting what you have and letting that be enough is so much more fulfilling than being on a dedicated mission to acquire what you <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> you want. Because once the acquisition is made, then what? Where do you go from there?<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I am fortunate not to have inherited the DNA that leads to mental illness or even anxiety. Those anxious tendencies I experienced as a young girl gradually disappeared. If there is a lingering after-effect of growing up in a home with that type of upheaval, it's that I am a realist. I don't count on much and I'm not good at depending on others. I believe I am the creator of my own destiny in that I choose what to do with the circumstances in which I am placed. I can embrace what is before me or reject it, and the results will depend on my choice. I find comfort in that.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Happiness isn't a goal; you don't reach it. You live it through your thoughts and words and actions. No one has the power to take it from you unless you give that power away. The world will always be full of pain and suffering, of evil and wrongdoing, of injustice and despair. Accepting happiness in spite of that is not an easy choice; it requires constant vigilance and commitment not to fall prey to misery. It requires you to allow yourself to experience all the normal emotions that make up humanity--grief, sorrow, disappointment, anger--and then move past them into the light.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Happiness isn't always easy; it's not your birthright. But it's always there, just waiting for you.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-88998443877033081652010-09-24T10:33:00.008-06:002010-09-25T17:13:14.168-06:00Like a Phoenix from the Ashes, Good Things Rise from Difficult Transitions<p id="blogfeeds">Every now and then, something happens that gives me pause to consider my life and where I'm at in the grand scheme of things. Yesterday, my newly published book arrived--100 copies of that book arrived, actually. And for a writer, I'm not sure there is a greater thrill than holding your book in your hands for the first time. It's heady stuff. In this case, that 500-plus-page book is the result of a year's worth of labor. So of course, I can't help but think back over the year.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And what a year it's been.</p><p id="blogfeeds">My life has been on ongoing series of transitions in the recent past. I left a 12-year relationship with the father of my daughters. It was a painful, gut-wrenching decision, one I had been struggling with for years. We had never married, but that fact didn't make the parting of ways any less difficult for us or our children. We had bought a house together, lost a son, built a life with four kids. Dismantling that life was not something I took lightly. Demanding something more, something better, for myself and those children required me to take a leap of faith. I knew I was making things more difficult on one level in the here and now in hopes of creating a brighter, more positive future for all involved.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I am fortunate--so incredibly blessed--to have four kids who know they occupy the first slots on my list of priorities. They are, in part, why I remained in the situation I was in for so long, and they are largely the reason I finally chose to leave it. Although tears were shed and anger brewed, they each knew, at the end of the day, that our life together was not ending, but rather shifting. Change was happening on several fronts this past spring, and we would face those changes as we always have: side-by-side.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">In addition to my split from Wes, my son Max graduated high school. That last year of school was a tug of war for him, I think, internally and externally. I watched as he made choices--nothing major, but still--I wish I could have kept him from making on the one hand. But I felt I needed to trust that all the years I had dedicated to him would have some positive influence. And I believe they did. Max has repeatedly proven to me that he is a person of integrity and principle. We may not always agree--and frequently don't--but that is not necessary for me to love and admire him.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Still, watching him pull away and knowing he was doing exactly what he needed to do was not easy for me. Max and I have shared a strong bond, and I had to let that bond guide me as I saw him less and missed him more.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">As if high school graduation wasn't enough, he had the audacity to go off to college. Now he lives in Boulder, and I see him more than I dared hope I might. We text regularly, and sometimes I chat with him on Facebook. He is in my heart constantly, along with his brother and sisters. But when I spend time with him now, it is clear he has an "other" life. That is, other from my own. And I'm okay with that.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">All the while these struggles of the heart and soul were taking place, I was crafting a book. This wasn't just any book; it was one man's dream to see this story in print. He dedicated 15 years of his life to uncovering the story of American pioneer Perry A. Burgess, and he trusted me to make that adventurous tale come to life. Some days it took all I had to sit in front of the computer and immerse myself in Perry's experience. My emotional life was in turmoil as sadness and resentment crept into the corners of my solitude. I had no peace. Most of the time, it took all I had to remember to just breathe. Ugh.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">And yet writing that story--researching the details and events of years gone by--breathed wonder into my life. There were days when time literally just disappeared as I felt myself being transported to a bygone era, one that was not influenced by technology or even motorized transportation. It was an era of great hardship and hope, persecution and loss. My spirit was buoyed by the determination and can-do attitude of the men I was writing about. In the end, as I typed the final word of the final paragraph of the final chapter, I knew that this writing assignment had been a major gift, its timing a perfect example of mystical synchronicity.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Having lived nearly 46 years, I am wise enough to understand that gifts come to us when we least expect them. And I've had enough experience with grief to know that sometimes, it clears the way for joy to grow. And joy is what I have found in someone I once knew who never completely let go of the idea of me.</p><p id="blogfeeds">After having made the decision to leave my relationship as 2009 became 2010, I got a phone call from an old friend, someone I had dated briefly in high school. Rick was charming, handsome, athletic back when I knew him. He came from a wonderful, loving family who welcomed me into their home and lives. But circumstances dictated the course my life would take, and I left the area soon after getting to know them all.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Twenty-eight years later, the phone rings and I find myself in a 2-hour conversation that leaves me smiling and feeling, well, <span style="font-style: italic;">happy</span>. In the midst of the tempest that was my life at the time, there blossomed a seed of pure happiness at having reconnected with someone who had once meant something to me. As I thought about the details of that first butterflies-in-the-stomach-inducing phone call after hanging up, I realized Rick had become the kind of person--the kind of man--I wasn't sure really existed. He laid bare his soul in that conversation by willingly talking not only of his successes but also his failures. He made no excuses for his regrets but clearly had great expectations for a fulfilling future. He confided in me things he'd shared with no one else in his life...somehow trusting me not only to keep those secrets, but to understand. I did, and I do.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Since that phone call, Rick and I have managed to get together as regularly as two people who live across the country from one another can. Between us, we have 8 children between the ages of 6 and 18. We come from vastly different lifestyles: his has been one of luxury while mine has been one of yard sales and coupons. His kids attend private schools while mine face the wilds of public education. He votes Republican and I just have to forgive him for that.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">It's easy to do, because Rick has awakened in my soul a peace I never imagined I would know in this lifetime. Somehow, he knows my heart so well that he often gives voice to thoughts and feelings before I get a word out. He talks to me--and truly listens--and sees me for the person I am. Being with him is at once exhilarating and comforting. He reflects to me a piece of myself I never knew existed. When I tell him I love him, it is with a depth and a knowing that I have never before experienced. And when one of my children says she loves him because she likes how he respects me, well, my heart soars to remarkable heights. Especially in light of the fact that he considers my own four kids "a bonus."<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">And so I am reminded that sometimes, the best things in life--the gifts--are born of those most difficult moments, those times when we forge ahead even as we really just want to curl up into the fetal position and block out the pain. Every now and then, perhaps we are rewarded when we force ourselves to push past settling for less simply because it is familiar and dare to demand something more <span style="font-style: italic;">because we deserve it</span>. There is no growth without risk, and even if the risk does not pan out the way we thought it would, being able to say "I tried" makes it all worth it.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And sometimes, as this past year has shown me, letting go of what makes you sad makes room for unmitigated hope to find you.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-38774898440910599322010-08-26T13:31:00.005-06:002010-08-26T14:04:17.732-06:00To College, and Beyond<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/THbBeVPw3PI/AAAAAAAAAG8/pSYH-SzjCHM/s1600/Max.shed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/THbBeVPw3PI/AAAAAAAAAG8/pSYH-SzjCHM/s200/Max.shed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509803920977878258" border="0" /></a>One week ago today, I drove with Max to CU-Boulder. And I left him there. And he was happy about it.<br /><br />Huh.<br /><br />Just a couple months earlier, Max spent nearly a full month in India, hiking and backpacking. It was his high school graduation gift. I thought it would help me prepare for his leaving in the fall.<br /><br />I was wrong.<br /><br />Nothing prepared me. Oh, I knew he was growing up and pushing himself away from shore. I knew that when he made some crazy choices over graduation weekend. I knew it when he transported home a hookah from India, cradling it in his lap as if it were a precious newborn. I knew it when he spent more time with friends than family throughout the summer.<br /><br />I knew. I swear I did. And I told myself that this was nature's way of getting me used to not having him around. Let me tell ya, I can be one convincing broad. But now that he's actually gone, meaning, HE DOES NOT LIVE HERE ANYMORE, I realize that there is no getting used to it. There's just acceptance, because what else can I do?<br /><br />Though he once spent nearly all his waking hours--and many of his slumbering ones, too--literally attached to me by sling or backpack or some other baby-carrying apparatus, the Barnacle Boy did develop into an independent young man. Despite the warnings of people who did not know me or Max but who likened our family bed to child abuse, my son did not grow up to be a serial killer (yet) or a mama's boy. He does not suffer from low self-esteem, nor does he have intimacy issues. He's a normal young adult. And he was so ready to leave this house, this town. And me.<br /><br />I tried not to take it personally. I mean, really. He had the confidence to strike out on his own in part because I nurtured that independence and spirit in him. How many 17-year-olds hop on an international flight to a foreign land by themselves (though he did meet up with a friend) and take each day as it comes, just living in the moment and embracing whatever adventure awaits him? But that's Max. He's comfortable in his own skin, and the unknown doesn't unnerve him. He lacks street smarts (come on, we live in Windsor, population 20,000) but makes up for that in the level of faith he has in himself. Those attitudes? They don't just happen. They are crafted.<br /><br />So I totally realize and understand that Max was able to tell me it was time for me to go last week as we stood outside his dorm because I did my job right. We don't share all the same values or beliefs. We don't agree on a lot of issues. One of our favorite pasttimes these last few years was late-night debating. Max and I are two sides of the same coin. We are of one another, but we have steadfastly different views on life.<br /><br />And that is why I can respect my son even as I want to shake him and ask what the hell he is thinking. It is why I can truly feel how much I love him even when I don't necessarily like the person he is being (and he's not liking me). It is, ultimately, why I can let him go with tears, yes, but also with the knowledge that he is exactly where he should be.<br /><br />That, and he's coming home to visit tomorrow. Heh.<br /><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-17385458994713111232009-08-02T10:14:00.009-06:002009-08-03T07:53:22.143-06:00Saying Goodbye to Tom<p id="blogfeeds">I awoke this morning to a phone call I didn't want to take. Tom, the man I have considered my stepdad for more than 20 years, had died some time during the night.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Mom and Tom had been together 17 years when she died quite suddenly and completely unexpectedly in 2004. They'd never married; I didn't care. They were more "together" than I had ever known my mom and biological dad to be, despite the fact that they <span style="font-style: italic;">were</span> married for 27 years. In my heart, if not on paper, Tom was my stepdad.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Today he is gone. All those stupid things people say to try to comfort those in mourning mean nothing. I don't care if he <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> with God or if he <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> in a better place or if his suffering <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> over...he is not here. And yet, what was <span style="font-style: italic;">here</span> to Tom?</p><p id="blogfeeds">In all the years Mom and Tom were together, she encouraged Tom to be dependent on her. She cooked all the meals, did all the shopping, the laundry...you see where this is going. Mom liked being needed; she liked playing the martyr. I'm not disrespecting her; Mom was a complicated woman. Her mental illness kept her from ever feeling she was good enough; in her own mind, she always fell short. Being needed gave her something to live for, something to make her feel worthy. And Tom seemed to enjoy being waited on, hand and foot.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">But when Mom got a new job in her mid-60s, her responsibilities demanded she be away from the house, which meant Tom would be alone. Older than her by 5 years, he was not able--had not been trained or encouraged--to stay on his own for extended periods of time. And by this time, he had several health issues, though I can't tell you what they were because one manifestation of Mom's mental status was pathological lying. One week he had Parkinson's; the next it was Touretts syndrome. I couldn't keep up and I didn't know what to believe.</p><p id="blogfeeds">This new job of Mom's brought her a new circle of friends and gave her a renewed lease on life; she was happy and felt valued. But Tom's presence and neediness stood in her way. So she put him in a home. And she abandoned him. And of all the things my mom has ever done that hurt--and there have been more than I can tell you--this is the one I can't get past.</p><p id="blogfeeds">It hurts me to type that admission, that confession of one of her most mortifying acts. And yet as Tom's body is being prepared for cremation, I can't NOT say it. As these tears wash over my face and blur my vision, I see in my mind a picture of a healthier Tom. And while I'm grieving, I know it's not so much over his passing, but over his ending.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Because Tom worshiped the ground my mother walked on. She could do no wrong, even as she belittled him, chastised him, complained about him. In happier days, they would go dancing at the Fire Hall or the Legion. And people would back up to watch them, they were that spectacular. Mom loved to cook; Tom loved to eat. She was bossy; he didn't seem to mind being pushed around. It was a symbiotic relationship and one that brought both of them a form of happiness.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And so to know Mom just warehoused him because greener pastures were calling absolutely slays me. At the same time, I know she was not well herself. She never had been mentally stable, and her physical health was in rapid decline, though only she knew just how so at that point. Was this tossing away of Tom an act of love, done so that he would be taken care of when she suddenly dropped dead? I've wanted to--tried to--believe that, but I know better. She did this because she wanted something else. It causes me deep shame to admit that, and I know she would never have let me get away with doing something so morally corrupt.</p><p id="blogfeeds">But Mom didn't play by the same rules as those of us with all our faculties. And most of the time, I let her slide. But not this time. I told her I thought what she did was appalling. I reminded her of all the good times they'd had, how Tom loved her like no man ever had loved her. I beseeched her not to just lock him up and abandon him to a life she knew would be sheer torture for him. She did not listen.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And in fact, during the last phone conversation she and I had, she lied and told me she'd been to visit Tom at the nursing home. I, ridiculously enough, believed her. I thought maybe she'd had a change of heart. But no, I later found out that had been just one more in a very long list of lies. She wanted me to think better of her.</p><p id="blogfeeds">After Mom's death, I visited Tom whenever I went east, which was not often. And whenever I did visit him, he would be so drugged up he wasn't fully aware. He'd have lucid moments, but that was the most I could hope for. Still, I went because if there was even a remote chance my presence could bring him a moment of happiness, I wanted to give him that. He deserved much more than that, more than I was able to give.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">The last time I saw him, this past October, he was bent over in his wheelchair so far that his nose almost touched his kneecaps. My aunt and I got him into his bed, propped him up, and made him as comfortable as possible. He remembered me and my kids; he didn't remember Mom. He had photos of my family on his bulletin board, and there were cards I had sent him on his nightstand. I tried to remain a part of his life, let him know he was still thought of and loved, even if I had to do it long distance.</p><p id="blogfeeds">As I sat on the bed with him holding his bony hand, I knew I probably would never see Tom again. In fact, I wished for him an end to the indignity, the emptiness, the nothing-life my mom committed him to. Yes, now he was sick enough to require professional care around the clock. When Mom sent him away, he was nowhere near the shattered man who lay before me. Did her getting rid of him cause this rapid decline? I can't say for sure.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">But here's what I do know: Tom Bellante loved my mom despite a mental illness that caused her do to unspeakable things to those she loved most. He cared for her and made her laugh. He rescued her from a life of loneliness and gave her something--and someone--to live for. He told her she was beautiful and believed the sun rose and set with her. He took her dancing and made her feel important. He was all the things a partner should be, even when she didn't deserve it.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Rest in peace, Tom. And know how much you meant to me.</p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-179892908374940582009-07-11T11:12:00.008-06:002009-08-02T11:14:32.732-06:00If They're Never Mad, You're Not Doing Your Job<p id="blogfeeds">I've been home alone with my 16-year-old, Max, since mid-week. Wes took the three younger kids to his annual family campout in Missouri. With just the two of us to care for, life has been much slower. Quieter. Yes, dare I say, easier?</p><p id="blogfeeds">Just yesterday as we were driving to get Max a burger, I asked if he was enjoying the solitude. "Yeah," he replied. "Just think Mom, this could be how life is ALL the time." I smiled at that...Max has always and forever believed he should be an only child. I ruined that, three times over.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know Max believes in the truth of what he said, but I also know how much he loves his family, even as he denounces us as stupid and annoying. Tucker and Max are as close as any brothers I've ever known. When they're here at the house, they're usually together. They exchange insults on a regular basis, but separately, they admit to the love they feel for one another. It's how family is.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Last night, I had the good fortune to enjoy the company of some wonderful friends, people I respect. The topic turned to parenting and kids, and we pondered the idea that raising kids with strict discipline does not necessarily result in kids who regularly make good choices. Conversely, kids raised with looser discipline don't always head down the wrong path.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I do think there's one measurement for parenting that is consistent across the board, regardless of parenting style: If your kids are never mad at you, you better step back and think about what you're doing.</p><p id="blogfeeds">With four kids between the ages of 8 and 16, I can almost count on the fact that at any given moment, at least one of them thinks I know nothing, am out of it, am mean, abuse of my power...the list goes on. In short, I suck. Knowing that the people I love most in this world feel that way on a semi-regular basis used to make me crazy. It hurt my feelings, made me second-guess my decisions and choices, left me feeling inadequate. But as they got older and began to voice their dissent more often, I came to recognize the phenomenon as one that I was just going to have to live with or change how I parent. And that second option wasn't very realistic.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Not that I'm a perfect parent. God, no. I wish I were, but Mom always told me to wish in one hand and poop in the other and see which filled up fastest. But I listen to my gut, and that intuition is reliable. And, generally speaking, my kids are good people. As one friend put it, I "allow them to be individuals and still give 'em a kick in the ass when they need it." Well said, friend.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I'm not here to be my kids' friend; they have enough of those. I feed those friends. I let them sleep at my house. I counsel some of them when they ask for advice. In short, I live with those friends; I don't want to <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> one of them. Some days, I don't want to be a parent, either. I'm tired. Or just feel lazy. Or am on the edge of the abyss because I have said, "Would you (fill in the blank)" 821 times already and the request still hasn't been fulfilled. Maybe I have a work deadline I'm struggling to meet. I don't want to cook dinner for myself or anyone else. Really, I just don't wanna do it.</p><p id="blogfeeds">But.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I signed up for this job willingly and without much understanding of what it entails. I took the risk, accepted the challenge. And so I will see it through. And if that means Max is mad because I won't allow him to sleep at a friend's house unless a parent is home <span style="font-style: italic;">and knows Max is supposed to sleep there,</span> too bad. It's my job to know where my kid is, or at the very least, where he isn't.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">If being a parent means explaining to Tucker for the 93rd time why I will not let him see that R-rated movie he so badly wants to see and which everyone else has seen, so be it. I'll do it. My teeth will be clenched, my eyebrow may twitch. Saying "yes" would require less effort, and I'd be the hero instead of the enemy. But I will still say "no."</p><p id="blogfeeds">If parenting this particular set of children the way I think they should be parented means Tavia is going to shoot me the 56th dirty look--really, Mom, are you serious?--of the day, then I will be the recipient of the 56th dirty look of the day. She will stomp up the stairs, slam her door, and be mad...until she isn't, which is probably not too long because she wants me to paint her nails, draw with her, toss her the volleyball so she can practice her bumps.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Bella, at 8, is young enough that she still wants to always do the right thing. My requests and restrictions may impose upon her happiness; they may be met with pouts and slumped shoulders to show me she's carrying the weight of the world. But by the day's end, I'm getting kisses and being told she loves me.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I can live with all of this. What I couldn't live with are kids who don't talk to me. Who never share the good and bad of their day, who can't be bothered to hug me goodbye or kiss me goodnight. I can live with the unpleasantness, but not without the good stuff. And I don't think the good stuff is a given; I earn that. How? By caring about where they are and who they're with. I love them with words and actions. The limits I impose act in the same way hugs do; they say "I love you," "you are worth caring about," "I know you're smart, but I'm one step ahead of you."</p><p id="blogfeeds">I'd rather my kids are always happy with me; that would be a slice of heaven. Who needs angels and clouds and everlasting life if you've got kids who understand you're just doing the best you can by them, even if that means not letting them do what they want? But I'm no fool. I know being a parent sometimes means they see me with horns and beady, red pig eyes.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">That's cool. I look good in red.<br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-26773317009964738542009-05-22T12:49:00.003-06:002009-05-22T13:35:55.785-06:00Blizzards, Tornadoes: Just Another Day in Windsor<p id="blogfeeds">One year ago this day--a day that was, like today, the last day of school--a tornado took a surprising turn north and vacuumed our town of 19,000. Some folks suffered more serious devastation and damages than others, but no one was left untouched by that mighty twister.</p><p id="blogfeeds">A drive through the Cornerstone neighborhoods reminds me how far we've come in terms of rebuilding. But the wood frames of houses yet unfinished indicates we've still a ways to go. Those centuries-old trees that once lined the cemetery on the way out of town no longer stand. I miss them. They're trees, I know. Some would say they're <span style="font-style: italic;">just</span> trees. But I love trees and the idea of all the comfort they provide not only us humans, but the animals as well. Trees tell stories if you listen close enough. But those trees? Their stories? Gone forever.</p><p id="blogfeeds">The tornado is still talked about in town--we chat about it in the coffee shops, in line at the post office, in the hallways at school. It has become part of Windsor's folklore, and there's no need to exaggerate what happened that day. Those of us who were here when it hit will never forget it: not the sound, the eerie color of the sky, the outrageous hailstones, the vibration of fear that pulsated through the streets.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Talking about it has been therapeutic. We share experiences--Where were you when it hit? Is your house repaired/rebuilt? Did insurance come through for you? Do you need anything? The very beast that tore us apart within a matter of moments is also responsible for forging bonds that will hold us closer together, possibly forever.</p><p id="blogfeeds">And today, the one-year anniversary, we celebrate. Schoolchildren are letting go of balloons, a color explosion to signal that we're still here. Neighborhoods will enjoy block parties, a traditional gathering that nurtures fellowship and camaraderie. The Town is hosting a party this evening for anyone who wants to attend. Hundreds of new trees have been planted throughout Windsor, and our baseball field has been renovated. Life goes on.</p><p id="blogfeeds">When I think of this time last year, my thoughts immediately turn to my children. Max, who was at lunch when the tornado hit. Tucker, a sixth-grader at the middle school right next door to the high school. Tavia and Bella, huddled in darkened rooms within their elementary school. My most vivid memories of that day play through my mind like a slide show...and still my hands begin to sweat when I allow my thoughts to go there.</p><p id="blogfeeds">What else do I remember? I remember the utter, raw terror in the facial expressions of my daughters, their visible relief when they saw me, the amazing Skyview staff who remained calm in the face of the unknown.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I remember Gene, our neighbor and friend who worked as maintenance man at the middle school. When he saw me there, he knew I was in search of Tucker and instructed me to stay where I was. He would find Tuck and bring him to me. And he did. I will love Gene until the day I die for that.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I remember going into the high school, where I went to a table, gave my student's name, and was told to wait while someone brought him to me. Only he never came; the school went into lockdown again before I could get Max out. It was one of the most helpless feelings I've ever had. Even as I write this, I cry. I had to make a choice: Stay inside the school with one of my children, or retreat back into the storm to where my other three were waiting in the van. I left Max behind in the safety of the brick building. But still. I left him behind.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I remember Tucker, 12 years old at the time, calmly putting his arms around me and saying, "Tell me what you need me to do, Mom. Just tell me." This quiet gift of his, as I was trying to comfort 2 hysterical little girls and maneuver 3 frightened dogs into the basement.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I remember thinking that Wes must be about out of his mind with worry because cell phones were dead and he was working on a job in a nearby town. So he knew what was going on, but not <span style="font-style: italic;">what was going on.</span><br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">365 days later, I look back on that day with a sense of awe. The kids have their own perspectives of that day. My 3 younger ones volunteered their time at the emergency center for days. They folded clothes, unpacked boxes, did whatever they were told to do. For them, the tornado presented an opportunity to go beyond their own comfort zones, to give of themselves with no expectation of getting anything in return. For Max, that disaster meant no classes. The year before, an unexpected blizzard cancelled the last day of school. He woke up this morning hoping this closing of the last day of school was a pattern. Alas, today is alternately cloudy and sunny, with a breeze and warm temperatures. It is a perfect last day of school.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Then again, with our recent history, what <span style="font-style: italic;">wouldn't</span> be?<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-53358766372607543722009-04-27T21:09:00.008-06:002009-04-28T19:15:41.489-06:00Decriminalizing Drugs: Should America Consider It?<p id="blogfeeds">Portugal decriminalized the personal possession of drugs--pot, coke, heroin and meth--in 2001. Prior to that, the country had one of the highest rates of hard drug use in Europe. Faced with a problem they could not control, Portugal chose instead to try a new approach. Instead of jail time, those found with small amounts of the drugs were offered therapy--which they could refuse with no repercussions.</p><p id="blogfeeds">What do you think happened? The answer might surprise you. According to a Cato Institute report published this month, drug use among teens in Portugal has declined, as did the rate of new HIV infections due to dirty needles. The number of folks seeking treatment for drug addiction more than doubled. (To read the <span style="font-style: italic;">Time</span> magazine article in its entirety, visit http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1893946,00.html.)<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">This is impressive news no matter how you look at it. Portugal has proven that government can manage the drug problem if it can let go of the need to punish. We're big on punishment here in America. Maybe it goes back to our Puritan roots. I'm not sure we'll ever be able to evolve beyond that need.</p><p id="blogfeeds">But clearly, we are failing miserably--over and over again--in our approach to dealing with drug use. America has the highest rate of marijuana and cocaine use, yet we have the most stringent laws. We fear liberalism so much that we are unwilling to pay attention to the success other parts of the world--mainly the EU--is experiencing with their policies.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Like so many of our national policies, the ones we enforce regarding drugs are based on fear and speculation. We ignore empirical evidence in favor of wild imagination and "what if" scenarios.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Let me be clear: I am not a fan of drugs. I've never smoked pot, popped pills, tripped on acid, or taken anything stronger than an alcoholic drink. Drugs do not interest or fascinate me. My brother's drug use informed my childhood, and I believe it played a large role in the breakup of my parents' already dysfunctional marriage, and hence, our family. If anyone could be the Anita Bryant of the drug issue, it's me.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">But I'm not in the majority. Most people experiment with one drug or another at some point in their lives. Many continue to use if not regularly, at least sporadically. Recreational drug use is an integral part of modern society, and like it or not, we must find a way to deal with it so that it ceases to be a major health and safety concern. Portugal seems to have stumbled on to something that works.</p><p id="blogfeeds">There is a segment of the American population that holds the attitude that drugs are bad and must be gotten rid of, and anything less is unacceptable. We've tried this; it isn't working. I agree they're a health hazard, but I'm a realist and know they will never be gotten rid of. Our punitive response to drug use has at least proven that: Regardless of how we view any and all drug use, it is never going to disappear. Drugs are here to stay, and we can either seek effective methods of management and semi-control, or we can continue to let the problem spiral downward, taking more and more of our friends and family with it. Portugal understands this; why can't America?</p><p id="blogfeeds">When the taboo of something has been lifted, common sense says more people will participate. The taboo of drug use is not what it once was. More people are more open about their use. The world has <span style="font-style: italic;">changed.</span> We must find a way to work with the change because society will never revert to what it once was. Conditions and attitudes will never regress. We are where we are, and we have to work with that and stop trying to move backward.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Yet here we are, banging our heads against the wall because we can't seem to get a handle on things. But we keep trudging along the same path. Don't know who said it, but the quotation "When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail" comes to mind. We have hammered away at the drug problem long enough, with pathetic results. It's time to take a new approach, come up with a strategy based on the desire for true impact, not punishment of the "wicked."</p><p id="blogfeeds">More than one million nonviolent drug users are behind bars. I don't call this progress. I hope you don't either.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-89538513662625406682009-03-27T19:35:00.002-06:002009-03-27T20:28:05.373-06:00Of Snow, Naked Women, and the Definition of Art<p id="blogfeeds">Our Spring Break is nearing its close, and I'd have to say it's been a memorable one not because of any unusual events or magic moments, but because of its remarkable calm.</p><p id="blogfeeds">We began the week with a short trek to Denver. If you have children of a wide age range, you know how difficult it is to find activities they'll all enjoy. Max is 16; Bella just turned 8. Tuck and Tavia fall somewhere in the middle. Inevitably, someone complains or doesn't want to participate in any organized activity.</p><p id="blogfeeds">This wasn't the case for us this time. We began our adventure with a (free) tour of Hammond's candy factory. Watching how candy canes and ribbon candy were made was fun. What I didn't expect was the kids to notice that every factory worker we saw was some ethnicity other than white. That opened up a discussion on wages, hiring practices, and workplace conditions. Who knew a free tour to a candy factory could be an educational experience? I'm thinking maybe the younger kids were expecting Oompa Loompas, but the reality was a far cry from Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Don't misunderstand--I have no idea what Hammond's pays their employees, and the factory seemed in fine shape. But I was totally loving that my kids' minds were thinking past what they were seeing to what it meant.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Next stop was the Denver Museum of Nature & Science, where we attended a free interactive exhibition: Nature Unleashed. It featured four types of natural disasters: earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes and tornadoes. Windsor was included in that last segment, so we had a vested interest in what was being presented. And it was fabulous. Bella kept excitedly sharing with me new information and facts she was learning along the way, and she was mightily impressed with what she was finding out. For Tavi, knowledge is power. And after living through the tornado last May, she's struggled along the way to get past her newfound fear of any weather other than sunshine. This exhibition helped a great deal. Again--entertainment proved highly educational, and we talked about history (the volcano that leveled Pompeii, the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906) and devastation (Hurricane Katrina, our own F3 tornado) all the way to the hotel.</p><p id="blogfeeds">We spent our second day at the Denver Art Museum. It features a new exhibition called "The Psychedelic Experience," which chronicles the hand-designed venue and rock concert posters from Haight Ashbury (San Francisco) from 1965 to 1971. Think Ken Kesey's acid tests, Beat poetry, the early days of Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, and other history-making musicians. This exhibition was admittedly less interesting to Tavi and Bella than it was to the rest of us; they have scant knowledge of that era and no understanding whatsoever of the drug/psychedelic culture. Bella was curious as to why there were so many "naked ladies" in the posters and artwork. I asked if she was uncomfortable, and she said no, she just wanted to know why there were 17 women in various states of undress adorning the walls. So I explained the history of that era using age-appropriate language and descriptions, and she was quite satisfied with what she learned. And she left that temporary exhibition with the knowledge that many folks consider the naked human body a work of art, something to celebrate and honor. In that spirit, she informed me she'd found two more.</p><p id="blogfeeds">All in all, we spent 4 1/2 hours in the art museum. As we visited various floors, we took in art from around the world. Some of it was fantastic; some not so much. Max and I got into a great debate on the definition of art. Specifically, he asked if something is functional, is it art (he says it isn't, I say most certainly can be). The younger kids were amazed that some art pieces were created centuries ago, and they gained a solid understanding that art can be an enlightening representation of a culture. We discussed the purpose of art, what it's "supposed" to do, why it's valuable or not. I was thrilled that each of the kids was able to appreciate what s/he was seeing on an individual level. Mostly, I like that even Bella can now go beyond saying "I like that" to explaining what it is about something that moves her.</p><p id="blogfeeds">The hotel we stayed at--a Sleep Inn on 120th Ave--was a nightmare. Exposed electrical boxes in the pool room, a hot tub guard rail that wobbled and came out of the ground, peeling paint (lead, anyone?), crumbled wall tiles, a plastic chair with a broken leg that someone propped back up and which Max quickly discovered was not stable, a headboard that pulled out of the wall if you so much as leaned against it to watch TV, bathroom doors that refused to lock or even close all the way...the list is endless. But we got a lot of laughs out of it anyway and felt like we were livin' on the edge, wondering what would fall apart next.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">And then yesterday, we enjoyed a major snowstorm. The entire family spent the day inside, watching Indiana Jones movies and playing the game Life. We made a huge breakfast and ate too much junk food as we hung out. Wes had a roaring fire going all day, and throughout it all, snow continued to steadily fall and blow with a beauty only nature can pull off. It was just perfect.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Too often, there's conflict of one kind or another when you put a large family together and try to please everyone. This Spring Break has been a gift to me and my family. We all deserve that once in a while.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-84864465254350791382009-03-04T13:52:00.008-07:002009-03-08T01:24:30.215-07:00What Makes for a "Good" Father?<p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">While this may not come as a shock to anyone who really knows me--and I mean <span style="font-style: italic;">knows</span> me--it bears being clearly stated: I am not the easiest significant other to be with.<br /></span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Yes, I am extremely low maintenance. Nope, I'm not needy in any sense of the word. In fact, any guy whose been with me for a substantial amount of time very likely has wondered at times if I even like him, I need so little. I'm an eternal optimist, even as the world comes crashing down. Just today, Wes called from work to inform me that he's losing his job for at least a month, if not longer. My first thought was, Wow! We can finally finish painting the family room. It's been half done for 3 years!</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span>But.</span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:100%;">I have high expectations when it comes to parenting. Only, I didn't know they were high. To me, they seem reasonable and obvious. I believe in being involved in the lives of my kids. Not when it's convenient or easy. Not when I feel like it. Not when I don't have something else I'd rather be doing. I believe in it at all times. Both parents.</span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:100%;">And by involved, I don't mean overbearing or hovering or coddling. I don't tell my kids they're awesome when they're not. I don't heap praise on them for behaving as they should. If they're acting like brats, I tell them they're being bratty. I'm not politically correct. I use the words "shit" and "hell" and "damn" because sometimes they're the only words that express what I mean. I yell when I'm mad and don't act any differently around other people's kids than I do my own. What you see of me in public is what you'd see of me at home.<br /></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:100%;">What I'm trying to say is, I am far from perfect. I make mistakes. But I don't let a day go by without telling every one of my kids I love them. I try to have a few uninterrupted moments with each of them every day. I don't hesitate to tell them I'm proud of them if the situation calls for it, and I am available to them when they need me. I advise, listen, discuss, debate. Together we learn, butt heads, compromise, concede. We are a family. A messy, loving, loud family.</span></p><p id="blogfeeds">Recently, one of my kids' friends' dad told me he's a good father to his school-age children. I asked him why he thinks that, and he said he drives them places, cooks for them, helps with their homework when he can. He puts food on the table.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">This same dad thinks it's okay to drink himself into unconsciousness every couple of weeks because he <span style="font-style: italic;">used</span> to do it every night. He thinks it's okay to smoke a joint or bowl and then try (and fail) to be responsible and attentive (he and his wife are divorced, so he has his kids on his own 3-4 days/nights a week). He leaves the house without tellings his kids while they're out playing, then doesn't answer his cell phone when they call, worried and wondering where he is. He doesn't pay his bills, doesn't work much, doesn't give them any sense of security.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">His house is not a home; the kids have very little of their things there. He commits to attending and participating in school functions and then backs out last minute. His kids say they're used to it. I hate him when I hear them say that.</p><p id="blogfeeds">I understand that perhaps this father is an exception to the vast majority of dads out there. But I'm not sure he is. Why do so many men who have kids believe they should get gold stars for doing the bare minimum?<span style="font-style: italic;"></span> Why do they think putting food on the table is all that's required of them? Why do they think they can drink and party and set a horrible example and then smack their kids around when they fall out of line? Why are so many dads assholes?</p><p id="blogfeeds">I know there are some fabulous, dedicated, loving fathers out there. I know some. I read about others. Some of them, I see at school when I'm picking up my kids. Some are reading this column right now. I know they exist.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">And I know there are some frighteningly awful mothers. I see them too. Even know a couple. But there seems to be some sort of internal mechanism that tells a lot of guys that this parenting thing is like a hobby: Do it when you feel like it, but don't let it take over your life.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Being a volunteer in the schools, teaching classes and making presentations, I see a lot of wounded kids. A lot. More than I ever thought there could be. They're hurt, angry, distant. I know some second grade kids whose defenses are already in place; their lives will not be easy.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Life's hard. I get that. But when we have kids, we must put them first. All the time. That doesn't mean we need to be perfect, or with them at all times. It doesn't mean we never allow them to struggle or fall, fail or fear. It means we love them. And when loving them isn't enough--and most days, it isn't--we must put our weaknesses and desires aside and step up to the plate.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Being good enough should be the exception, not the rule.</p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-4598472245420530032009-02-16T11:48:00.002-07:002009-02-16T12:47:56.813-07:00<p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Autism & Vaccinations: Where the Personal <span style="font-style: italic;">IS</span> Political</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The federal court ruled last week that there is insufficient evidence to prove the link between autism and childhood vaccinations. Specifically, the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccine. A victory for some, a crippling defeat for others, it is a ruling that, to me, is moot. Courts must rely solely on physical evidence to make their decisions; proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that the MMR causes autism in some children is impossible. There are too many underlying and individual factors.</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But that doesn't mean I believe there's no link between the MMR and autism. I do.<br /></span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And before I go any further, let me be clear that I have no medical background or vested interest in taking one side or the other. I don't have an autistic child. Nor do I have a vaccinated child. I have healthy children who have never been vaccinated. And I researched the hell out of vaccinations before making the decision to forego that particular childhood tradition. This was back in 1992. I haven't stopped studying the topic since.</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I think the decision to vaccinate one's children is personal. Parents have the right to choose either way, and then they must live with the consequences of that choice. What irritates me to no end is when a parent accepts vaccinations as mandatory and doesn't question their efficacy, safety, or logic. I mean, we're talking a child's life here...this decision is not along the lines of piercing ears or even circumcision; this is a decision which may involve injecting toxins directly into a healthy human body in an unnatural way. If a parent has thought this through, weighed the circumstances, and then makes the decision in favor of or against, she has done so (presumably) out of love for her child and the desire to keep that child healthy and safe. If, on the other hand, she allows her child to be vaccinated simply because it's what she's told to do, then I have no respect for that. I'm a firm believer in questioning authority when authority needs to be questioned.</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I'm not writing this column because I think children shouldn't be vaccinated. I'm writing it because I think the time has come (is overdue, actually) to re-evaluate the role of vaccines. They were definitely a blessing when first introduced, as were labor unions and public schools. But times change and our social constructs and institutions must change if they are to remain valuable and effective.</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The first cases of autism were diagnosed in 1943; all eleven diagnoses were among children who were born in the months after thimerosal, a form of mercury, was first added to infant vaccinations in 1931. Today, autism has reached epidemic proportions, and parents are advised to give their children more vaccines than ever before. Is it mere coincidence that the number of cases of diagnosed autism has drastically increased as the number of "required" childhood vaccines has risen? I can't imagine it is.</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I made the choice not vaccinate based on research and instinct. As parents, we must trust that inner voice that alternately screams and whispers to us. I have been chastised by medical personnel (but not all of them) and scorned by other parents for my decision. Yet I have never regretted it. That doesn't mean I think it's the right choice for everyone. But it was right for me and my children.</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I just want people to think. Think about their choices, their actions, their behavior. Too many folks seem to just go along with the norm and never stop to consider why it's the norm. I don't necessarily want you to agree with me. I just want you to know <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span> you disagree.</span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">For a thought-provoking expose on autism and vaccinations, check out this <span style="font-style: italic;">Rolling Stone</span> article: http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story/7395411/deadly_immunity/ . The level of integrity and investigative journalism is noteworthy, and regardless of which side of the fence you sit on for this issue, it will give you pause to ponder.<br /></span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></span></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-18609174768713388572009-01-20T12:58:00.004-07:002009-01-20T17:13:22.822-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SXY8Im97F3I/AAAAAAAAAFY/9ztD6JN6BiY/s1600-h/RSCN5213.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SXY8Im97F3I/AAAAAAAAAFY/9ztD6JN6BiY/s200/RSCN5213.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293484530617489266" border="0" /></a><br /><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">A New Day Dawns</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span></span><br />As I write on this glorious, sunny day, I'm watching the Inaugural ceremonies. I've been watching since earlier this morning, and as the day unfolds, I find myself feeling a stronger sense of national pride than I've felt in years. It's not that I ever did not want to be an American; no mere mortal could ever wield that magnitude of power over me. But in recent years, I've come to feel misrepresented as an individual American on virtually every front. Respect for the presidential office aside, Bush simply was never my president.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Today I feel hope--unlimited, bottomless surges of hope. The idea of hope is a welcome one regardless of circumstances. But the climate of our nation has been one of fear, frustration, disappointment, anger, and dissent for so long that hope had become little more than a four-letter word. It was distant, unattainable, fading into the horizon.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Many things about today contribute to my feeling of hope: the fact that the man who now leads us is young and vital, a loving father and husband who seems in touch with the reality most of us accept as our own; that this one man had the courage to step up and speak out at a time when our nation most needed a clear, intelligent voice; that he sacrificed his private life for a cause much bigger--and more difficult--than any one person's endeavors. I think Barack Obama chose to seek the presidency not because he could, but because he felt he should.</p><p id="blogfeeds">But more than this, I am hopeful because we as a nation banded together and said Enough. We've had enough. And we did what we had to do to bring about the change necessary to right ourselves.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I believe most hatred and ugliness is born of fear, and the fear stems from ignorance. Racism has long divided our country, and to an extent, perhaps, it always will. But for this one brief moment, we robbed racism of its power and banished it. We chose hope and a belief in the power of the people over hatred and fear. We made an active decision to break through a long-standing paradigm of limitation based on tradition and an unwillingness to take a chance.</p><p id="blogfeeds">There is but a one-letter difference between "chance" and "change," and I think one relies on the other for existence. I truly believe we have the leader we need to guide us out of the mire we find ourselves trudging through. He is no savior, not a messiah. He is probably scared to death and will undoubtedly make mistakes. But my gut tells me his mistakes will have come from an attempt to do the right thing for the most people, to make the best of difficult choices and decisions. I see an integrity in this man I never was able to detect in his predecessor.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">I will forever be proud to be able to tell my children that I helped bring Barack Obama to the White House. When he stumbles and falls--as we know he will--the fallout will be tempered by the spirit which permeates this day. We will remember the elation, the sheer relief, the unabashed triumph. We will remember <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span> we put him in office.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">This day belongs to us all, regardless of creed, political party, race, or any other factor that leads to division. Today is our day.<br /></p><p id="blogfeeds">Today is a <span style="font-style: italic;">good</span> day. And for me, it's doubly wonderful; my baby--the last of the tribe--turns 8 today. One look into Bella's dear face and I am reminded of the goodness and delight this life has to offer.</p><p id="blogfeeds">Life is <span style="font-weight: bold;">good.</span><br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span><br /></p><p id="blogfeeds"><br /></p>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-23078935177030097232009-01-03T18:44:00.011-07:002009-01-04T13:06:06.773-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SWAmaep0wzI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/goD_GFxfRio/s1600-h/DSCN5295.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SWAmaep0wzI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/goD_GFxfRio/s200/DSCN5295.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287268198879904562" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SWAmD-esCnI/AAAAAAAAAFI/7Q5PJcOjhzI/s1600-h/DSCN5199.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SWAmD-esCnI/AAAAAAAAAFI/7Q5PJcOjhzI/s200/DSCN5199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287267812286138994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:georgia;">The Front Porch</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:180%;"> Returns</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Happy New Year! I hope this column finds you in good spirits and even better health. It's been more than 6 months since I've posted a new column, and that's just not okay. Many of you have asked if I stopped writing <span style="font-style: italic;">The Front Porch.</span> The answer is a resounding NO! I just got swamped with writing gigs that pay, so something had to go.<br /><br />But we're back on the porch, and I hope you'll join us there. I'll publish my column bi-weekly, more if there's something I just can't let pass. I think 2 columns/month is doable, and I'm looking forward to getting back into the good and the bad of writing an opinion column.<br /><br />There is one major change: I will no longer email you when I've posted a new column. Instead, you can sign up to be automatically alerted to new columns. It's easy.<br /><br />To your immediate left is a "Subscribe" button. There is also a Subscribe link at the very bottom of this page. I don't know the difference between the two, but I figure one of them will suit your fancy. Click on the button/link, and you're done. That's all there is to it!<br /><br />If you don't want to read <span style="font-style: italic;">The Front Porch</span> any more, don't do a thing. You won't receive alerts. But if you do, be sure to subscribe, and forward the column to folks you think might find it interesting.<br /><br />Now...enough with the technical stuff. My brain has been mulling over a few morsels:<br /><br />*************************<br />I turn <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204); font-weight: bold;">44</span></span> this Thursday! Yes, absolutely I'll have a drink with you. A big one, the kind that smells so good you want to take a bath in it. You think I'm kidding...you're funny.<br /><br />*************************<br />Someone told me last week that I am only the second Democrat he's ever liked. Does that say more about me or him?<br /><br />*************************<br />2008 clarified a few things for me:<br /><br />1. I'm no fan of tornadoes.<br />2. I voted for Vazquez for mayor, but only because I thought he was less wrong for the job than the other guys. I have since changed my mind about him. As far as I'm concerned, the guy has proven his ability to lead effectively even under dire circumstances. He has my full support unless he starts to act like an idiot, and I don't see that happening.<br />3. I live in a town where folks sometimes over-react (I'm thinking about the MySpace "scandal" at the high school...could we have made a bigger deal of that if we tried?), but also where, when disaster strikes, residents pull together and reach out to help those in need. I spent the weeks immediately following the tornado with an overwhelming sense of pride in my community. Even now, that whole surreal event chokes me up and brings tears to my eyes.<br />4. Bruce Springsteen really IS the Boss.<br />5. The dark years for this country are fading into the shadows (for now...history does tend to repeat itself). Though we have a lot of clean-up to do, I believe we've proven we're up to the challenge. We placed more value on hope and the chance of better tomorrows than we did on experience and old-white-guyness in this last election, and I think that was the right call. Again, there's that sense of pride in my fellow man.<br /><br />********************************<br />And finally...<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">OBAMA WON!!!</span></span></span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30752286.post-9051938554915719142008-06-05T10:44:00.008-06:002008-11-11T09:22:56.897-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SRmxGGppj0I/AAAAAAAAACU/9H5_SwNwhD4/s1600-h/wolverine.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 88px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_u2qR-PWHniQ/SRmxGGppj0I/AAAAAAAAACU/9H5_SwNwhD4/s320/wolverine.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267435957609140034" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.chezcomics.com/comics-resources-information-pages/marvel-comics-information-resources/marvel-comics-superhero-character-profiles/wolverine%202.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.chezcomics.com/comics-resources-information-pages/marvel-comics-information-resources/marvel-comics-superhero-character-profiles/wolverine%202.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Of Tootsie Rolls and Gray Hair</span></span></span><br /><br />It's been two weeks to the day, nearly to the hour, since the tornado ripped through our town to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. And that amount includes only those things upon which we can place a monetary value. It doesn't begin to address other losses we've incurred. For some of us, that loss is a sense of security. Our young kids are frightened. They can't sleep. They don't want to be too far from Mom or Dad. My own Bella, usually one of the most joyful kids you could imagine, is suddenly fixated with death and dying. She doesn't want to die, and the only thing I could say that finally brought her peace is that if it was time for her to go, the tornado would have taken her. Clearly, I told her, there's more in store for her. She thought about that, and her 7-year-old brain wrapped itself around the idea that life has purpose, and until she achieves that purpose, she's here for the duration. Good enough.<br /><br />For others, that loss comes in the form of personal momentos that were swept up and scattered, never to be returned. How can we put a price on that lost family photo, the one where all the kids are wearing ornery expressions because they don't want to be sitting there in front of the camera? Or the one of a beloved parent, now long dead? Maybe the keepsake isn't a photo, but a hair ribbon. A love letter, perhaps.<br /><br />Regardless of the extent of damage to our homes and businesses, all of us here in Windsor have lost something. As days pass and we reconnect with friends, make sure they're okay, offer assistance, those of us who do not live in the disaster zone can temper our loss with the idea that we're luckier than many. And there is truth in that. But while we're feeling grateful, I think it's imperative to recognize that the fact that we still have our houses, our belongings, our families, doesn't dis-count the other fact: Our lives were turned upside down on May 22, and it will take time to recover.<br /><br />This became crystal clear to me when I was in the check-out lane at King Soopers last week. The cashier asked how I was, and without giving it a thought, I replied, "Well, it's a good day when foot-long Tootsie Rolls are on sale and there are no tornadoes." Then I simply stared at her, amazed that such a sentence even formed itself in my brain. "Wow," I said. "Have my standards lowered!" And we laughed, but the humor didn't hide what was left unsaid: What I once took for granted was no longer a given.<br /><br />I'm disorganized, easily flustered, incredibly forgetful. I'll open my mouth to say something and before the words come out, the thought has left me. I don't like this at all. But I also know I'm not alone in my stumbling, fumbling days. Many of my friends are experiencing the same thing. There's a sense of disconnect, and when we try to focus on something, our thoughts drift. It's an odd feeling to have that happen, especially if you're usually an organized, get-it-done type of person.<br /><br />And many, many of us are dealing with our insurance companies, making appointments, getting estimates...our days are really interrupted and disjointed. And even when the insurance company comes through and helps us rebuild and repair, it's stressful. I am not exaggerating in any way when I say that I've had more gray hair appear on my head in the last 2 weeks than ever before. I wake up each morning, and there they are, a few more strands. I had my hair pulled back last week, and Tucker thought it was awesome. "Woah, Mom! You have, like, Wolverine gray hair!" For your viewing pleasure, I've posted an illustration of Wolverine so you can see what Tuck means. See those black wingy things? Imagine them gray, and that's what Tuck thinks I look like. Now, he's also the kid who asked me if I was going through a midlife crisis last year when I bought a pair of white sneakers with little silver-sequined stars on the outside of them, so maybe he isn't the best judge. But take it for what it's worth. Now I'm an X-Man in midlife crisis. (And for the record, I bought those shoes because they were cheap.)<br /><br />At any rate, we plug away with each day, hopefully feeling a sense of normalcy gradually replace this murkiness. I really just wanted to reach out and let people know that we should feel grateful, yes. But we should also allow ourselves time to feel sad. We all lost something two weeks ago. Big or small, major or minor, we lost.<br /><br />So whatever it takes...sale-priced Tootsie Rolls or a day of sunshine (remember sunshine?)...find your joy where you can.Rebecca Valentinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14152618745135315858noreply@blogger.com3