Jane Doe, Alive and Well

She mopped up the carnage with a practiced hand.

It wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last.

She never stopped to think of the hundreds – no, thousands – that would mourn those dead, cared nothing for the kin of the lost. Their demise had been almost instantaneous; a mercy, but not one purposed on her part. Surely even a brief second in agony felt like an eternity, but any suffering on their part gave her no pause. She had watched the bodies curl one by one, fetus-like, and twitch. Then, stillness that signaled victory.

She did wonder if the pictures would haunt her thoughts. Would she be able to walk in this location again without seeing the mass of death? Would certain smells put her in a cold sweat?

Better to focus on the task at hand. It was taking longer than she anticipated and the inconvenience heightened her anger. She had so much to do today.

Why did they have to come here, anyway? They were like refugees, crawling along and dragging away crumbs. It irritated her to see them on her property.

Now, to destroy the evidence. A smile twitched the corner of the lips as she lifted the trash can lid. Good thing the trash collector was unobservant. Oh for crying out loud, some had sprayed on her shirt. Now she’d have to do laundry today, too.

She turned and stopped. A survivor. Obviously confused, reaching out for a signal about which way to go. Crawling toward escape. But one is easily taken care of. No need for tools or chemicals. Her shoe would work with the same efficacy.

Damn ants.
********************************
So … now you know how I spent one of my mornings last week. I used the cornmeal trick that my mom-in-law sent me, and now I haven’t seen a single ant. Maybe it worked!

Ants are amazing creatures (and “aunts” are pretty amazing, too – Hi Aunt Jeannie!!!) and I don’t have anything against them. I just don’t like it when 5,000 of them decide to become houseguests. I did use humane and organic spray. It’s supposed to contain a neurotoxin that kills them instantaneously. So please don’t report me to PETA. They have bigger fish to fry. Er, I mean, un-fry. I mean, to save from frying.

Mmmm, mmm, mmm. Finger – licking good.

And licking your fingers is not considered bad manners if you are in India, or eating with friends from India, as we were lucky enough to do yesterday. It was a fun time and a mildly cross-cultural experience, like the eating with your fingers part. I could tell it would take me about .05 seconds to convince my son to ditch the fork that had been politely laid out on the table because of the presence of us westerners.

No silverware for daily meals. Now that’s a smart idea.

Think about the amount of space that could be saved in the dishwasher if you didn’t use silverware, which would translate to more space for dishes which would mean less use of the dishwasher which translates into more energy saved.

I think I’ve stumbled upon the latest fad for energy conservation.

Now if I could just find something local as big as banana leaves to serve food on…

Anyway, I’m surprised none of you showed up, because we just followed our noses to find the way. The fresh spicy-sweet, cinamony-clovey aromas wafting in the air pulled us to their door.

The food was prepared by the husband’s mother, on loan to them from India for several months while our friends adjust to being a family of three instead of two. This woman knows how to cook. Can you say authentic Indian curry? Steamy lamb and jasmine rice with impossibly complex spices? Tomato and cucumber salad and hot-off-the-pan freshly cooked naan? (Careful of your keyboard, you’re drooling.)

I couldn’t say it either, because every time I opened my mouth to say it I was told “eat some more”, a directive I was only too happy to comply with. I had second, thirds and fourths and was still told at the end of the meal with just a hint of disdain, “You didn’t eat enough.”

Jeez! I tried!

Our friends are certainly gracious hosts, and were willing to answer question after question about food, family, geography, religion and general Indian culture. I was really curious about the whole “arranged marriage” tradition and it was so interesting to hear the thoughts of two who really know and understand it as opposed to people not of that culture expressing judgments and opinions about it. Lots of differences in our peoples…lots of similarities, too.

We rolled home in a curry stupor. It was the late afternoon when I finally got around to reading the paper, and the question of the week caught my eye. Six people were asked “Would you ever consider running for public office?” Three women and two men said “no”, for a variety of reasons. One man said yes, he would consider it.

The responses were pretty interesting to read, and it resurrected the leftovers of a political discussion with someone from a (really fun) party on Friday night. (Yes, the social calendar was full this weekend). This person knows just a leeeeettle bit of the current Chico political minefield than the average Chico resident. Said person confirmed, and I agree, that many people don’t realize how brutal the political realm is until they step into it…even if it’s just dipping one little toe into the shallow end. So really brave ones take the plunge, and the really smart ones just stay out of the pool.

Nah, just kidding. Some really smart ones do jump in the pool.

Anyway, as I sat there with my mind steeping in curry spices and Chico politics a phrase came to mind: "currying favour". I’d heard that phrase before but couldn’t quite remember the exact meaning of it, so I looked it up.

To curry favour is “to attempt to gain favour or ingratiate oneself, by fawing or flattery. See: politics”.

Actually, I added that last little part about politics myself. But they do seem to be served up alongside of each other; a dish you see a lot during this time of year. It's one of those no-fail recipes.

That’s the way the game is played. You find support in the people who think the same as you do, and you repay the support by bringing their concerns to the front. You can even curry favour among your opponents, though you’re not going to vote the way they want you too. When you can do that, you’re a talented politician. Talented politicians win races.

But here’s the thing – people feel passionately about all sorts of issues, and you can’t make everyone happy. What repeatedly astounds me is the way some of those unhappy people act, from both sides of the political spectrum and everywhere in between. I see very little of actual healthy, intellectual, subject-based dialog. I see a lot of ranting that quickly deteriorates into attacks on the person, rather than the person’s pro or con argument. That’s probably why I wouldn’t run for a public office. I don’t have thick enough skin. And, some of those unhappy people are p-r-e-t-t-y scary.

Did you know that the curry of 'curry favour' has nothing to do with Indian food? It comes instead from an Old French verb conraier - 'to prepare', 'to put in order'. This is the same source as the name for the rubbing down and brushing of horses - curry-combing, preparing them for the saddle.

I didn’t know that. Based on the circumstances of my day yesterday when I was under the influence of coriander, tumeric, garlic and cumin, I jumped to a wrong conclusion. I kind of forgot that “curry” even had a definition other than “delicious spicy dish”.

It’s so much easier to jump to conclusions about people, lump them under a stereotype and dismiss them all, especially when there’s so much fodder out there to support that stereotypic thinking. Very few people from any issue actually take the time to address the valid pros and cons. Most of us carry a “don’t bother me with the facts” type of attitude. It’s pretty easy to forget that another person might have a different definition of the problem, see the issue entirely different than I do. With the things some people say, it’s pretty easy to forget they are a person at all. They’re certainly not acting with the level of intelligence usually afforded to humans.

I know I’m not saying anything new. Other people have written about this much more eloquently than this bloated blog entry. But it does hit a bit closer to home, and is more sobering when you know people involved in the process. When friends and acquaintances instead of strangers are getting sliced and diced and served up on a platter, the process is bitter tasting indeed.

It’s confession time.

I’ve had several people make comments about how long it’s been since I’ve posted – comments that I brushed off, as people do when they don’t want to be confronted by the truth. I even had one friend tell me she finally took my blog off of her watch list because she thought I was never going to write again (“I’ll write something soon,” I thought, my denial fully intact). But only this morning did one of those persons link it to my physical well-being, as in, “I’ve really got to call Tina to find out if she’s okay, because it’s been so long since ‘Jane Doe’ has been updated.”

Jeez. My guilt meter is in the red.

Be pleased to know that as the blog title asserts that I am alive and well. So why the absence?

Well, I’ll tell you.

I fell in love, I relapsed and I had a baby. In that order.

Shocking, I know. Especially in the small amount of time that I’ve been absent.

I can hear your mind now, thinking…doesn’t a baby usually take nine months (ten, actually) or did I miss some new technological advancement?

No, your CNN setting didn’t fail you. It’s not that kind of baby. Or that kind of relapse, of the Lindsay –Mary Kate – Brittany variety.

I fell in love with someone…well, someones, plural, more accurately. Now, don’t let your mind go there, it’s not like that. None of these people actually exist. I got hooked on a book.

(Pause. A book, you say? A book kept her away this long?)

Yes, but see, you must understand that books are my particular brand of heroin (and if you recognize that line, you know which book I’m talking about so DON’T TELL!). I don’t read books; I inhale them, absorb them and live in them. They make my brain race and alter my rational abilities. This book did all of those things (no, I’m not going to tell you what book it is because I’m utterly embarrassed by it). And that led to my relapse because…(deep breath here, confession is good for me, confession is good for me, confession is good…)

…it’s actually a series of books. A series of very thick books. No, it’s not Harry Potter - I’ve already gone through those. For many years I’ve been able to be pretty good about reining in this reading addiction of mine, not letting it overtake me entirely. I mean sure, I had a couple of late nights where I just couldn’t put one down, and regretted it the next morning, but for the most part I had it under control. I even purposefully did not read a few books that I might not be able to control myself with (especially if they were in a series). So overall I felt that I was doing really well.

Until I read these books. Major relapse. I raced and re-raced through these books for about a month in any spare moments; moments that used to be dedicated to you, dear reader, and to writing this blog.

(Wait a minute, you say. It only took you a month….what happened to the other two months?)

Well, like I said, I birthed a baby. Of sorts.

I wrote a book.

See, in the process of reading this series of books and checking out some websites dedicated to these books I found something called fan fiction. I’d never heard of such a thing, but obviously millions of other people have. It’s where people take someone else’s characters – obviously, Harry Potter is the favorite, but Sawyer from “Lost” has a huge following also – and these fans write their own stories. I know, I know, it’s absolutely ridiculous and an utter waste of time. And ninety-five percent of the millions of stories out there are garbage. I mean, really, really bad writing. Although, if I were English teacher I would probably be glad that my students were trying to write something. With the emphasis on the “trying” part.

But then there’s the five percent that is actually pretty good, with realistic plot lines and good character development. You just have to know which sites prescreen their submissions and have some standards about what they’ll post. And I happened to come upon one of those sites – maybe it was chance, maybe it was ordained – when it was posting an open submission period.

I thought – you know, I could submit a story. I really could. I’d thought a lot about these books; they had spoken to me in a personal way, they’d impacted my life, and I’d thought a lot about the characters. I’d actually scribbled down in a notebook a couple of scenes that I’d dreamt up. I started thinking about where I’d take the story, if it were mine to write.

So I submitted the first chapter. It got selected. (It actually got selected “with honors” but you know, I don’t want to sound too proud over something so truly ridiculous).

And that, dear reader, is where I’ve been the last couple of months. Writing a book. It can never be published, but boy did I have fun. Thirteen chapters and 35,000 words later the book is done – well, as done as it will ever be. Because then the real author’s final book came out, and now that I know how it really ends, I’ve stopped writing my version of how it could end.

But people liked what I wrote; it got really good fanfiction reviews - which mean nothing since the people are all biased, but it sure felt good.

The best thing about the whole (ridiculous) process is that removed a mental road block to writing my real book, the kind that I could publish and maybe even make a few bucks. I’ve had it on the back burner for about a half a year, working it over and over in my head. But I’ve been resistant to put it down in black and white because you know, who am I to think I could write a book? What a dream.

Nope. No longer a dream. I’ve already written one, and people even liked it. One book down, half a dozen more to go.

But the next project is only a 1500 word article. Pssh. What’s 1500 words when I’ve already written 35,000? I’ll try not to stay away too long. I missed y’all, too…all six of you that actually read this thing!

(Note: Yes, I’m writing in continuation again. You’ll have to go all the way back to the “On Being Alive and Well" entry - about four entries back - if you want the whole story. Sorry! I’m trying to build up stamina for when I write my novel!)

Fortunately, this illness was nothing like the last one. It was more like a bad cold. It was just enough to make her a little clingy , and needing extra attention for Friday and Saturday. Forget about all the things on my list that we were going to do together. We could cuddle in the rocking chair all weekend, if that’s what she wanted. Bubbles and sidewalk chalk and parks and picnics could wait. Was I going to turn down a chance to snuggle? No way.

We rocked, and it gave me time to think about this crazy month.

It just seemed too coincidental that our daughter would just “happen” to get so crazy ill the same week that Mark “happened” to be fully across the nation, and that Peggy and Chip just “happened” to need us right when Mark got home and baby girl “happened” to be recovered so their kids could stay with us and our son didn’t “happen” to get sick until Peg and Chip decided to go ahead and take the kids home.

It just don’t happen like that.

I think – I know - well, I think I know that circumstances happen for a reason, and that in everything in there is a lesson to be learned.

So, now the hard part. Uncovering the lessons.

Probably most of the time in life we don’t learn our lessons because one, we’re not open to learning them, and two, even if we are open to learning them, we don’t take the time to reflect and find out what the lessons are. I mean, life does go by at the speed of light, at least in the child-rearing season.

The first lesson, for me, is to be more available to my friends who are single parents, and to make sure that they know I’m available – day or night. I only walked a week in the shoes of single parenting and while I thought each of you was incredible before...well, now I have new appreciation of what you go through. Single parents, you are amazing.

The obvious lesson is that by golly, we all need friends. (cue “Lean On Me” background music here) Good friends. Giving friends. You can pour all of your time and energy into your job, your hobbies, your on-line chat rooms (your on-line anything, for that matter), your television shows, but none of those things are going to be there to help you when your life gets crazy and you need someone to take your boy to baseball practice. You’ve got to invest the time it takes to build friendships. You’ve got to be willing to help other people in their times of need – which means, you need to be aware of other people and not just be living in your own little bubble.

A lesson that could be possible to miss is to make sure my spouse knows how much I appreciate him. I love, appreciate and pretty much adore him all the time (feel free to roll your eyes here), but having him gone reminded me of how much I appreciated him. Just his mere presence brings a measure of stability and calm to me and to our home. So I checked in with that one – yep, he knows, he feels loved and appreciated. (Guess I need to work on the adoring part).

Being thankful is another lesson that comes to mind. It’s the whole “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” lesson. I’m not sure exactly why I needed a reminder on this one, since I really do practice thankfulness almost daily for our good health. But, apparently, I needed a little reminder!

So those are the obvious ones (did I miss any?). Now, onto the not so easy ones…asking for help, and dealing with control issues.

Not quite an hour before the kids left to home, though, my son got sick.

Now, read the post from two days ago, inserting “son” instead of daughter, and you know how sick he got. That was the second week of illness, made better by the fact that my wonderful husband was home, but made hard by the fact that it’s more difficult to keep a younger child occupied on her own than an older child.

On Monday night, Peggy’s dad died. It was bittersweet; it was a mixture of pain and relief all jumbled together.

On Tuesday, I hugged her good-bye as she went home with her mom to start the practical things that a death requires, and to be there for her as emotional firestorms caught up with her. Grief will eventually drain, one slow day at a time.

On Wednesday, I got a less than “everything is A-ok” report from an annual checkup, so follow up is needed to find out what’s wrong. But the earliest follow – up appointment is….four weeks. Sigh.

On Thursday night, number one son seemed to be on the mend, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I don’t recommend doing that, should you find yourself in this kind of season of life.

On Friday I woke up with conjunctivitis. I had been hoping to pick up a per diem shift at work on Saturday, which was now out of the question. And it’s actually good that I didn’t even try because…

On Saturday afternoon, I got sick. It started with a fever….oh, no, I thought. Here we go again. But my virus presented a bit different. I had vertigo. Really bad vertigo. I think I would choose nausea over vertigo, but then, I wasn’t given a choice, was I?

Most of Sunday I spent lying very, very still, and plaintively asking for Mark and the kids to please not wiggle the bed so much when they so sweetly came to check on me.

On Monday, I was up and about - thank you, God. And my dishwasher broke. Not a big deal, I know. But it’s nice to think of blazing hot water cleaning the dishes when viruses are running around my house. It was quickly fixed by my handyman husband. If only everything in life could be fixed as quickly.

On Friday my husband left for a week-end long trip with our son. They went to a father – son camp out on the coast. They’ve done this trip in the past with the same group and it’s been a great experience. I was happy for them to go and excited for the time they would have together.

And on Friday, my daughter got sick.

I knew life was cyclic, but please, not this again!

So, I got by with a lot of help from my friends, and Mark was due home on Friday at 3:00. Believe me, I was counting the hours. He was as anxious to be home as I was to have him home. In many ways that whole week was worse for him than it was for me, since he was so far away. But child number two was now nicely on the mend, the week was behind me and things were looking up.

At about 1:00, the phone rang. I expected it to be Mark, telling me the plane had landed, and hold on just a little longer, baby, because he was on his way home.

It wasn’t Mark.

It was my best girlfriend’s husband. The one I had called earlier this week – quite early, remember?
Like, at 12:45 a.m.

“Oh,” I thought quickly. “He’s returning my call to see how Peggy was doing.” She had had an outpatient procedure early that morning.

No. That’s not why he was calling.

Peggy’s dad had been in a serious accident, he said. He had been airlifted via Lifeflight to Enloe. They didn’t know if he was going to make it. Peggy’s mom was at the hospital, and Peggy’s brother was either there or on his way. Peggy wasn’t meeting the discharge criteria for the surgery yet. Could I go to the hospital to check on Judy? Could I take their kids for the night when they came down? Oh my God, yes, and yes.

So for the second time that week, I called my girlfriends for help. One dropped everything and came over to be with my kids so I could go to the hospital and find Judy, who was doing remarkably well. I waited until some more (wonderful) family friends came, then I got home ten minutes before Mark did. A couple hours later three of our favorite kids in the world were added to our family for the weekend (and a dog), and by nine that night we got to have one of the cousins come stay, too.

So our family of four swelled to a family of eight for a couple of days. It was great, it really was. I felt a bit guilty, actually, that we were having so much fun under circumstances so tragic. It did feel a little bit like an emotional yo-yo, receiving the latest info from the hospital, and reporting to Peggy how the kids were doing, what questions they were asking, and then coming back to party central.

You already know how it ended, from my previous post ("On Being Alive and Well") . But of course, at the time we didn’t know how it was going to end, and there was plenty of emotion to have to deal with. Peggy and her husband decided to try to keep life going as normal as possible for the kids, so our brood shrank back to original size on Sunday afternoon.

I’d like to thank Life for a couple of weeks that were difficult to handle.

No, really, now that it is past, I am thankful for it. While in the midst of it…well, let’s just say that I was experiencing some other emotions.

It started when my husband left on a Friday for a week long trip with his Dad. They went to Louisiana to build homes in the areas destroyed by hurricane Katrina. They’ve done similar builds in the past and they’ve always been great trips. I was happy for him to go and excited for the time he would have with his dad.

Saturday went great.

Sunday, our youngest got sick. Really sick, really fast. As vomit was running down my leg and into my shoe (sorry to be so graphic, but you’ve got to get the mental picture) I guessed that we were dealing with a 24 hour stomach virus, and maybe, now that she’d puked out about 1/8th of her body weight, the worst of it was over.

When her temperature began to climb to levels that even had me, who is of the temperature's-are-a-good-thing mindset concerned, I knew I had guessed wrong. Neither of us slept much Sunday night, maybe four or five hours. And keep in mind that I’m an 8 hours of sleep at night person. Eight hours, minimum.

Monday was a little hard, but I have a really capable boy who managed for the most part on his own. I made a list of schoolwork for him, and he worked at it diligently, bringing me the parts he needed help with or the books I needed to listen to him read aloud. I sat in the rocking chair, cajoling sips of fluids into the sick one, putting on blankets or cold packs, as her temperature or chilling indicated. But still, I was in good spirits, even teasing my husband when he called to check in, about how much snuggling time I was getting that he was missing out on.

Monday night was worse. The temperature peaked at 1 a.m. I think I got four or five hours of sleep. Actually, I wasn’t thinking much.

Tuesday was much the same as Monday, except for calls to the doctor on guidelines to mange this, and calls to the naturopathic doctor for some holistic remedies.

Tuesday night was the worst. At midnight, neither sick little girl nor I had been to bed. At about 12:30, she started doing the strangest things. She may have been delusional because of the fevers. She may have been proving the homeopathic remedy. She may have been trying to clear the copious amounts of mucous in her nose and throat. Whatever she was doing, it scared the crap out of me. I called my best girlfriend in tears (she lives 2 hours away). I didn’t know if I should take her to the emergency room, I didn’t know who to wake up to come watch my little boy. I was beyond exhausted, I was not thinking straight, I was running on adrenaline. My girlfriend was the best; she made some calls for me, she got me through it. I think we finally got some sleep at 2 a.m.

On Wednesday, I caved, and made phone calls to local friends. My one friend told me later that I scared her a bit, since I couldn’t get more than a couple of words out a time without dissolving into tears, and that is very much not like me. Within two hours I had two people come by to pray for us and offer support, a ride to classes followed by all day babysitting for my boy and dinner delivered that would last us for two nights. My extra-special girlfriend Kelly volunteered to stay the night on so I could sleep uninterrupted for the first half, knowing that someone was awake listening for my little sickie to cry out. She took the first shift, and I took the second, and I finally got some sleep.

I have some amazing, wonderful friends. They checked in frequently, they prayed, they got me through it. What would I have done without them? I felt so blessed, I felt cared for, and I felt….embarrassed.

Yep, embarrassed.

Embarrassed to be asking for help. Embarrassed that I couldn’t handle this situation on my own. Was I not prepared enough? Had I lost my independence? Was I not a good enough mom? What mistakes did I make? I poured all this out, along with a bucketful of tears, to one of my friends that came over to check on me.

No parent is ever prepared for having a child be ill, she said. It strikes fear in every parent’s heart. And being a nurse, well, maybe… she said delicately, maybe it gave me a little too much information, since most parents don’t consider viral meningitis when their child has a fever. No, I had not lost my independence, she reassured, I’d only lost my rational abilities because I’d lost so much sleep. That fact that I was so worried proved I was a great mom, she insisted. And the only mistake I’d made was to not call for some help earlier, she asserted.

Call earlier? No way. I should have been able to handle this. It was such a little thing compared to what some people have to deal with. I mean, what about parents whose kids are seriously ill? What about the pioneers who managed without doctors to call to reassure them? What about mothers in war torn countries who have no motrin to give or even water to cool their babies with? They all handle their situations!

You. Are. Not. Rational. My friend told me this very slowly. You. Need. Sleep.
Listen, she said. Haven’t you stepped up for people in the past? If you had a friend going through this, wouldn’t you be upset if she didn’t call you? Wouldn’t you help her?

Yes, yes, and yes.

And, little did I know how soon that would be.

It’s strange, the things you remember in your life. Some things leave a stronger impression than you'd expect.

One thing that I remember is whenever my foster - mom Sandi heard a siren, she would stop right then and pray for whoever was in the ambulance and for his or her family. Since we most often heard a siren when we were in the van she would have me and Rex say a prayer, too. I’m not sure how this tradition started – my guess is that it is something born out of her natural compassion coupled with her great faith. But even though I was annoyed at times to have my natural teenage self-absorption interrupted, it sent a message about the value of all people, care for strangers, and the omnipresence of human suffering. It provided some perspective. Maybe my problems were not so big after all, compared to the person in that ambulance.

I followed her example for a long time – it was like Pavlovian conditioning; hear a siren, say a prayer. When I moved up to Chico I added the distinct whir of helicopter blades to my subconscious attuning. Hear the chopper, verify that it was FlightCare, say a prayer. I worked at the hospital, so my thoughts would drift to the nurses working that day, hearing the trauma team activation in my head, knowing with a bit of pride how the nurses would be preparing themselves, both those going out in the helicopter and those poised on the rooftop awaiting its return, to go into action to save a life or lives.

On Friday, I didn’t hear the helicopter go out, but I know it did.
On Friday, I didn’t pray for the nurses, but I know they were ready.
On Friday, the life brought to them so swiftly across the skies was my best girlfriend’s daddy, Connie Mack Lindsey. Judy’s husband; Debbie, Kenny and Peggy’s dad, “Pop” to numerous adoring grandchildren, and a man I knew little, but admired much.

Peggy’s and my friendship spans twenty-one years, back to our earliest college days. I believe I first met Mr. Lindsey (“Call me Connie, Tina”) when she brought me with her on a family camping trip to the coast. This loud, large, somewhat wild Lindsey clan was a bit overwhelming yet entirely enthralling to me. I’d never seen a family so at ease with playing with each other, yelling at each other, caring for each other.

Connie took me out on the ocean in their boat; me, white-knuckled holding onto the boat; Peggy and Kenny looking completely at ease and arguing about the driving. I remember him teasing Peggy and me about going in circles while trying to navigate the canoe. I remember watching him work the grill, watching him drive the boat, watching him lay into Kenny for something (he was a young buck and needed it), watching him give some lovin’ to Judy.

That started two decades of watching him, because, honestly, I didn’t talk with him all that much. My husband, who’s known him half as long, has had more full conversations with him than I have; he was, after all, a “man’s man”. Obviously, from not growing up with him, I can look at him with a bit of rose-colored glasses. But I watched him be both firm and fair with Peggy. I watched him be protective of her. I watched everything he did with Peggy; every ruffle of her hair, every kiss on the top of her head; noticed every time he tossed her the keys or a teasing comment. I watched, because I wanted to know what a father / daughter relationship was supposed to be like. Peggy had such a great relationship with her Dad. It was healthy. She was so secure.

Connie had many gifts. Though I didn’t know him well, I know he was a man of few words but strong convictions and plenty of action. His faith was deep and not at all showy. His life was an example of a strong work ethic and unwavering devotion to family and friends. And, from what I saw over this last weekend, that devotion was returned to him - because if you could survive one of Connie’s practical jokes, I think that made you a friend for life.

I mostly remember him with a smile on his face working the grill with one arm and extending the other arm to give me a hug – or more accurately, a bear-like squeeze. In later years, it was followed by the firm handshake for Mark, the kind reserved for papa-bear types to remind a young man that yes, I like you, but you had better take care of that girl you’re married to.

I remember always feeling welcomed and accepted. And not only me; he made many people feel welcomed. He was gifted in doing that with people. I understand now that he was completely comfortable with himself…so he could then be welcoming and accepting of others.

He made his employees feel valued. Several traveled up to the hospital this weekend. Even though the family business has been passed to Kenny’s capable hands, their connection to Connie and Judy remained.

He made his grandchildren feel cherished. I can still hear in my mind, over and over again, the love and pride and adoration in their voices, each time one of Peggy’s kids referred to their “Pop”.

And he made his family feel loved. Connie left many gifts for his family, both tangible and intangible. But the greatest, I think, is this; they know that he loved them.

On their fortieth wedding anniversary, the Lindsey kids crafted an album for Connie and Judy, filled with letters from family and friends. So I got a chance to tell them how much I appreciated them and how I’ve learned about life, family and love from watching the two of them. The letter ended wishing them many more joy-filled anniversaries in the years to come, reaping all the wonderful benefits of the good things that they’ve sown.

It’s beyond sad that there won’t be any more anniversaries, but yes, Judy and the entire extended family, for generations to come, will reap the benefits from being loved by such a generous, kind, fun-loving, hard-working, spiritually mature and devoted husband and father.

We miss you already, Connie. But we know that your soul has now discovered was it is to be truly alive and completely well.

Today is my birthday, and I made quite the sacrifice.

Usually my birthday is a mixture of sweetness and sorrow, and to find out why you’ll have the read the article I wrote last year at this time, back when I was a bona fide writer for the North State Voices column in the Enterprise – Record (I copied it below). But, all of you are long-time fans, and you’ve already read that column, right? Right.

So, to put a bit of a balm on what has been, at times, a bit of a confusing day for me, I’ve self-soothed by making it a tradition for my birthday to be my day, a day that I could do whatever I wanted. Usually that means I spend the whole day gardening. One year I spent the entire day scrapbooking. I could do nothing, if I wanted. It’s my day.

It slowly became apparent over the course of this week that this birthday would not follow the tradition, as my son laid out the list of everything he had planned for my birthday celebration - a list that included, interestingly enough, everything that he liked to do. One night as we tackled a post – dinner sink full of dirty dishes, my husband asked what I would like my day to look like, and offered to run a little interference, if needed, with child number one’s commandeering of my day. But strangely enough – and quite surprising to me – I was okay with not having MY day. I realized that I didn’t really want to be gone all day from my little family. A good portion of our day was already spoken for by a little league game, anyway. Maybe I could just go to the farmer’s market by myself, I suggested, and a little gardening in the afternoon.

So my birthday did not look like years past. But that wasn’t the sacrifice.

During the hour or so that I did get by myself – my “little piece of quiet” that every mom needs - I headed to the farmer’s market to buy tomato plants and fresh flowers, with one pretty significant detour. Hey, it was still my birthday, right? I had to treat myself to something special. So, to The Upper Crust I went. And it’s where you should go to, should you be in need of something special of the edible kind. There, or Mim’s, but Mim’s doesn’t serve coffee (which I happened to need this morning) or loose-leaf tea, which was my birthday present to myself.

The line was long as it always is on weekends, but everyone knows it’s worth the wait. The cases were stocked to overflowing, with cakes and plates of pastries spilling out onto the back counters, and still more cakes, freshly frosted, being brought out by the bakers and gently placed in the large refrigerators in the back corner. I knew immediately that Saint Honoratus of Amiens must be smiling on me for my birthday, because I found the absolute perfect treat for me – a raspberry peach scone. Not the incredible caramel oatmeal cake, or the chocolate éclairs, or the fresh butter croissants, but a raspberry peach scone.

And there was one left.

I willed each person in front of me to not order it, and then was content to just let my gaze wander over all the delicious delights.

The little bells on the door tinkled and in walked a family of four, the youngest members being two little girls. They were adorable. They had quite obviously accessorized themselves that morning because the little tiaras and various glittery things did not quite match the more sensible, weather-appropriate clothes mom or dad had put on them. They were out with mom and dad, they were twirling with excitement, they were wide-eyed at all the treats. I couldn’t help but smile at mom and dad, and laugh at the happy girls.
“Oooh, look at all the cookies!” mommy said.
“Cookies!” they said, clapping and jumping.
“And the muffins! Mommy said. “And the scones!”
“Oh! Oh!” cheered the youngest. “Daddy, can I have a scone? Please!”
“Sure, sweetie.” said the smiling, coffee-carrying daddy, kneeling down to put one arm around her. “There’s chocolate, and lemon, and blueberry, and raspberry peach –“
“Oh! Oh!” she breathed, eyes shining. “Raspberry peach! That’s what I want.”
“What are you getting?” she asked older sister, who had been selecting with mommy.
“A blueberry oatmeal muffin.” She said. “What are you getting?”
“A raspberry peach scone.”

Who can resist tiny, twirling, tiara-wearing little girls? Not me. Not even on my birthday.

As I was waiting for my tea, I received a lot of joy from watching her stand on tiptoe to reach the little plate with the last raspberry peach scone and carefully carry it over to the table. Then I went home to my own twirling, jumping with excitement , bright-eyed beauties. It was a great day.

Jane Doe recommends: Anything at Upper Crust. They only make the oatmeal caramel cake on the weekends. If you want raspberry peach scones, I suggest you get there early! If you don’t like the parking situation downtown, then go to Mim’s on Humboldt road, where there’s always plenty of room to park. These places know how to bake, and if you’re going to eat cake, you might as well eat the good stuff!

We need to talk.

I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that I’ve been avoiding you…it was true, really, what I told you about our computer having some problems, and how incredibly busy I was during “birthday party season” at our house, and yes, both sets of wonderful parents did come to visit for a while, and then there were the few days that I was consumed with making sure I could avoid criminal prosecution (oh, did I forget to mention that? I’ll have to write about that later…)
But those aren’t the entire reasons why I’ve stayed away so long.

I know it’s going to be hard to hear, and I’ve never been known for tact, so I’ll just come right out and say it.
I have a new love.

As with most love affairs, this one is moving way too fast. And, also like most love affairs, it’s temporary. After all, baseball season is only three months long. If you’re in farm league, that is. Which my son is.

It’s a testament of my great love for boy child number one that he gets to play baseball. I carry a lot of trauma from suffering (no exaggeration, there) through seasons of my younger brother’s tee-ball games, then through years of watching him pitch for little league. I can remember feeling like I was going to get sick, I was so nervous for him out there on the mound. Already a less-than-exciting sport at those early levels, the hours just seemed to drag on and on and on. Remember, this was before walkmans, cell phones, ipods – it was aaaages ago.

So when boy child expressed his desire to play ball this year, I could barely suppress a groan. Soccer? You bet. Swim? No sweat. Basketball? Oh yeah. Baseball? Pleaseohpleasenotbaseball!!!

Softball was not in my repertoire of sports in high school. I refused to play it. I thought that girls who played softball were only quasi-athletes. (Okay! Okay! I was wrong! I’m just telling you what I thought way back then.) I mean, I can play baseball. I was forced to play enough in PE and family games that I even figured out I could switch hit – not surprising for a lefty in a right-handed world. But I never learned the finer points of correct form, never learned that it had strategy, and definitely never developed a love for the sport.

Until now, that is.

Daddy’s presence was required at the opening ceremonies of the new Sherwood Forest Disc Golf course – and the first baseball practice was scheduled at the same time. The e-mail coach sent out made it clear that parent participation was both needed and expected. So I grabbed my glove (of course I own a mitt! I am an American!) and followed my son on to the field.

It was….fun!

It was more than fun, it was…mystical, in a way. I felt like I was being given a sneak peak into something very special in a young boy’s life, this time called “little league”. We are so lacking in rites of passage in our society, so deficient that I wonder if this substitutes for one. How many thousands of boys (and girls, too, but I’m not writing about young ladies) are learning to “elephant swing” and “feed the monkey” and “coil like a cobra” this time of year? How many of their coaches learned the same things, decades ago? If we passed down our love and values and morals as actively and enthusiastically as we pass down the correct way to hold a bat, maybe our families (and thus our society) would be healthier than it is today.

I mused on this as I was checking each boy’s grip and stance at station one. The coach I was assisting quickly instructed me in the proper grip, swing and stance, the common mistakes the boys make and how to correct them. I had to take a couple of swings myself, of course. I felt a little giddy. I knew how to correctly hold a bat! (You gotta line up the knuckles correctly.) I didn’t have to fake any enthusiasm while holding the hit-stick; when I heard the distinct sound that meant the player had connected correctly, the words of encouragement came pouring out from the coach and me.

The next practice I learned about throwing- how to hold the ball, how to “swing – step – throw”, how to play around the clock. My son’s probably wishing I wasn’t at practices, because now I’m a stickler about warming up, correct stance and correct glove position when catching. I tell him to “get a dirty glove” on the grounders and to “look it in” all the way to the mitt.

There’s a lot to know and practice, so you can see where my time’s going. Those afternoon hours of cold winter days are being put to a different use than pounding on the keyboard; now I’m pounding on a mitt. I’ve got important things to pass on, like "take time to set up" , "look where you want the ball to go", and "remember, we win as a team, and lose as a team".

Good advice for baseball. Great advice for life.

Jane Doe Thanks

All the coaches giving their time for youth sports, all the parents supporting their kids playing sports, and all the businesses sponsoring teams so the leagues can exist. Having the opportunity to play sports almost year-round is just one more positive thing about raising your kids in Chico.

An extra special thanks to the firefighters from the station by Wildwood Park, who brought over several arm loads of towels for the kids to dry off with after they were absolutely soaked to the bone from the unexpected deluge on Friday afternoon. A lot of boys would have been even colder if not for those warm, dry towels. Now that’s going above and beyond the call of duty. Thanks, guys! Sorry you ended up with the extra laundry, but we sure appreciated those towels.