What Day Is It?

I’ve been convinced today is Tuesday. I had appointments today, so I know it’s Wednesday, but for some reason it feels like Tuesday. Tomorrow I have a class to teach, and fortunately I have reminders that pop up on my calendar app, so I don’t spend tomorrow thinking it’s Wednesday and miss my Thursday stuff.

It was a good day for a Tuesday, or even a Wednesday. Some days I can’t get anything done, or it feels that way. Today I feel as though I got everything I wanted done, and more. Those days are usually followed by days I don’t.

I didn’t write today, and considering it’s after five, and I’m taking Beck to soccer practice out in Black Forest at 6:15, and won’t be back until 8:30 . . . it’s unlikely I’ll write tonight either. And tomorrow is jam-packed full of stuff too. So maybe Friday? 

What I did do was go for a kayak ride. My friend Cathy has two, can’t get her husband to go often enough, so we try to go once a week. It’s sacred time for me. Not only do I get to reconnect with Cathy, I get to spend an hour or more out on Monument Lake. Nestled against a backdrop of forest, there are ducks, geese, heron, beaver, and other wildlife along the shore or in the water that add to the serenity of our glide across the lake. There are days, like today, where we take two laps. 

Regardless of whether it’s one or two, I leave the water feeling as though I’ve just done a deep breathing exercise, or had a massage. It’s invigorating in the same way—rejuvenated may be a better word for how I feel.  

It was a good day, and when it is, I suppose it doesn’t matter what else you call it.

Sunday Morning

It is a beautiful day here in Monument, but then, most days are. Even when the temperature is low, and the wind swirls the falling snow, it’s beautiful. Today the sun is shining brightly, and when I padded my way to the kitchen for my first cup of coffee, I couldn’t see a cloud in the sky no matter which window I peeked out of.

The house is quiet and still. We’ve adjusted to our summer sleep schedule and rarely does anyone wake before seven. I was the first awake today, it’s been a long time since I have been, and I relish the peace.

Despite my best intentions, I didn’t write yesterday, at least not on my current book. I did write a summary for DANCE, which my publicist is actively pitching for reviews. Each review blogger asks for something slightly different it seems. I’ve created ePubs for all the books, sent secret links to download full version PDFs, and now completed the summary.

She and I meet once a week, and she brings assignments to our meeting. The longer the list, the more chagrin I feel. Any time spent on the list is time I’m not spending writing. She knows how I feel though, and hates to bring up the stuff I detest, like writing summaries. Putting a story of three hundred words into a single page, or page and a half is deplorable. If I was a short story writer, perhaps it wouldn’t annoy me so much. I’m not, so it does.

Whenever she senses I don’t particularly want to do something, she offers her assistance. What that means is she stands over me until I’ve done whatever it is. She doesn’t literally stand over me, she sits across the room. It works, as childish as I may sound. Having her there insisting I finish whatever it is, works.

At this point I have three more books summaries to write. She’s suggesting we tackle one a week. I didn’t remind her that she’s going to be out of town soon, because then she would have suggested we write another yesterday. 

Back to my beautiful Sunday morning . . . today is a writing day, and I can’t wait. I love this story as much as I’ve loved the others I’ve written. I know the eventual outcome . . . in the world of publishing acronyms it is HEA (happily ever after). But it’s the getting there part that is the most fun. What is keeping our hero and heroine apart? Which characters play the role of sidekick? Which characters from previous books can I make part of this story so we can spend time with them again? (Admittedly, that is my favorite part.) 

Unless I’m crying because I’m writing something sad, I’m usually smiling when I write. It may not be evident, because there isn’t necessarily a smile on my face, it’s more that my whole body is smiling, especially my soul.

Blog post done . . . at some point I’ll get my body on the treadmill, but otherwise, I’m hanging out in Crested Butte with Bullet and Tristan, Liv and Ben, Billy, Jace, Lyric, and Bill and Dottie. What a blessed day this will be.

The House Concert

Frank’s band, the Lost and the Lonely, has experienced a few ups and downs over the course of the last few weeks. It all began when they went to Denver to record their first demo. The guy who was supposed to let them into the studio and help them with the recording, didn’t show up. Word was he was in the hospital, which the boys didn’t know before they packed up their instruments and made the drive.

As I do often, I texted Frank part way through the morning and asked how it was going. He told me the news, and said they were trying to figure out what to do since they were up there. 

I’m fuzzy on how the next part played out, but they were sitting on the steps of the building and were approached by a talent agent. I learned later that they spent a couple hours in his office and played some songs for him. And then the agent told them about an opportunity of a lifetime.

As I’m sure was true with the other boys in the band, Frank called me from Denver, to tell me the great news. Incredulous, I listened. Warning bells were going off inside my head. I bit my tongue several times, reminding myself to allow Frank to enjoy this experience, and not rain on his parade. After all, it was possible that I was wrong, and the band had just been discovered.

Several emails, lots of research, a parent meeting, and a couple weeks later, the woman in charge of the "opportunity of a lifetime" finally showed her hand. As much as the five sets of parents were looking forward to a Las Vegas vacation, where the opportunity was to take place, the cost for the band to enter what we finally determined was a talent showcase, was more than the boys (or the parents) were comfortable with.

I had sent an email out to a few friends in the entertainment industry asking if anyone had heard of this person. The answer came back only moments after the one and only phone call I had with her. Stay away. I had just come to the same conclusion.

The boys were disappointed, but without the parents being the ones to dash their dreams. They realized they were being scammed and fielded at least a couple more phone calls from the agent with an effective "no, thank you."

One boy's parents offered to host a BBQ and house concert for the parents who hadn’t yet heard the boys play. It was this past Saturday. And it was awesome. Before they started to play, and during their set, Doug took photos, which were later played for the group as a slideshow. 

For me, it was the first time I heard them play plugged. The practices and concert I saw before were acoustic. It was also the first with a drum set. Noah, the drummer, was really good, as were the other boys.

The biggest surprise, and source of great pride for me was what a performer Frank has become. He sang, he played guitar, he danced around the performance area, jumped off equipment . . . he really got into it. He sounded and looked like a budding rock star.

The band played five or six songs, and then we took a break for dinner. After dinner Frank and a couple of the other guys played two acoustic songs. One was a song I recognized.

A few nights prior, I heard Frank playing in the room below mine. I texted him and told him whatever he was playing was beautiful. He responded with really? I answered, yes, really, really beautiful. A few moments later, I got a video text of him singing and playing a minute or two of the song. Tears. Of course.

When he played it at the BBQ, my sunglasses hid the tears that fell again. The melody is simply gorgeous and the lyrics . . . so moving. It is likely Frank knew I was crying, because he’s come to expect it. Music does that to me. Especially his music.

A few minutes ago I saw that Frank posted a couple of the photos Doug took. And I copied them . . . 

During their performance I motioned one of Frank's closest friends over. "Can you believe it?" I asked him. "Look at him. He's amazing." The friend nodded his head in agreement, the same look of pride on his face as was on mine. 

I looked over a Doug periodically during the performance and after. Most of the time he was taking photos. When the slideshow played, I saw the love he has for Frank captured in his images. There are so many really good shots of Frank, and also of the other boys. When he has time I’m sure he’ll retouch some and give them to the other parents. 

As a lover of music, some might say fanatic, there is nothing sweeter than hearing the songs my son has written. I am so very proud of him.

Accomplishment vs. No Accomplishment

There are days that I look at the clock and can’t believe it’s already 1:59pm. Like today. Didn’t I just get up? Wasn’t it 8:30 just five minutes ago? On the surface, I haven’t done a damn thing all day. Upon closer inspection, maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.

I did, after all, sleep in until 8:30. That is a HUGE accomplishment for someone who in the past couldn’t sleep past 6:00am. I also sold something we had posted on Craigslist. That involved a couple of phone calls, and five minute exchange of product and $$.

I had focused conversations with people in my family. With Doug’s help, researched, chose, researched again, and finally purchased Frank’s birthday gift. I’d be the one most likely to buy him a gift card or something equally uninteresting. Doug, on the other hand, comes up with REALLY GREAT gift ideas. Frank is going to love it. It’s going to be highly useful, and the best part . . . never in a million years would Frank dream he’d be getting this gift (and no, it’s not a car).

I also scanned and downloaded some documents we needed to send to someone . . . a task that would’ve taken the better part of a day . . . but since I’m a very accomplished organizer, and Doug and I have a firm grasp on how technology can make our lives easier, the whole process took under an hour.

Oh, and I checked email, made a hair appointment. And ate lunch. 

In the words of Elizabeth Bennet, "[those are], I suppose,  . . . small accomplishment[s]."

My Father-in-Law

In February of this year, we lost Doug’s father. This morning I was missing him, remembering his weekly phone calls, and the way he’d say, “Well hello, is this Heather? How’s Heather?” He was boisterous in his enthusiastic greeting, the smile on his face came straight through the phone line. His calls were routine. Next he’d ask about the weather, followed by questions about Doug and the boys. 

As far as father-in-laws go, I was relatively close to mine. He and I talked often, as I was usually the one who answered the phone. Most years we visited Roy and Doug’s mother, Charlotte, at least once, sometimes twice. Or they’d come to see us, in California when we lived there, and then in Colorado. As they both aged, Roy in particular, the visits became more infrequent. He had an adverse reaction to the altitude.

When Doug and I were planning our wedding, Doug asked me if I wanted his father to walk me down the aisle. My sweet, sweet husband . . . his thoughtfulness . . . thinking about it brings me to tears. I’ve always loved this photo, because when I look at it, it’s how I feel . . . loved.

I can hear his laugh and see the look on his face when I close my eyes. And I miss him so.

Both Doug’s parents have a way about them . . . they manage to stay involved in the lives of their children, and grandchildren, but never impose. They’re amazingly supportive, yet never intrusive. I don’t know if I have the self-discipline or whatever it is that allowed them to be that way. I hope I learn how to do it, because I admire it so much.

Roy was generous to a fault, funny, charming, and . . . obstinate. He wanted things the way he wanted them. Period. I remember one of the first times he visited Doug, and I made dinner. He asked me to get strawberries, a favorite of his. I prepared them the same way my grandmother always did, sliced and sprinkled with a little sugar, similar to how they’re served with strawberry shortcake. He pulled me aside after dinner and explained the way he liked them. Not sliced. Just strawberries. I got it. He wasn’t rude about it. Not at all. It was just his way. 

Early on I admired the relationship he had with Doug’s mom. He treated her with respect, checked with her, asked how she was doing, what she thought about things, took her places that meant something to her, recognized things she enjoyed. If this was the example of marriage Doug grew up with, I knew he’d be a good husband. I wasn’t wrong.

Roy did a lot for Doug and me. He helped us get our first house, and helped us so many other times when the road was rocky. He gave advice freely . . . when asked. He’d tread lightly though.

When we opened the art gallery, he and Charlotte came to visit. Much of Doug’s art hung on the walls, and pride shown brightly on their faces. “It’s one of my biggest regrets,” he said that night, and other times through the years. “That I didn’t recognize Doug’s artistic abilities earlier, and nurture it more.”   

He had a stroke shortly after Christmas. When the phone call came, I told Doug not to wait. If his mother or brothers told him to come see his dad, he should get on the next flight. I know that all too well. They did, and Doug asked me to go with him. I’m so glad we went. It was the last time we saw him.

What I’ll remember about that trip is how hard he was trying to overcome the stroke’s effects. When Charlotte got her long, long hair cut short for the first time in all the years I’ve known them, he beamed at her. And although he struggled with speech, he managed to tell her how good she looked. I had to turn away, I could not contain my tears. 

Later, watching my husband shave his father’s beard is another memory I will hold dear, as I know he will. The love that flowed between the two of them was palpable. Seeing the son caring for the father, giving in a way he could, when he wasn’t sure what else he could do . . . moments like those are priceless.

There are other memories I am so glad we have. The first time the entire family was together in years was our wedding. Then again the summer after Doug’s oldest brother’s wedding, when we all gathered in Pennsylvania for a summer reunion. As summers are in Pennsylvania, it was hot and humid. Regardless, he asked me to make one of his favorite meals—much better suited to cooler weather. Grandpa’s Stew we call it, and always will. I made it every time they came to visit. He told everyone that day it was “the perfect meal,” as far was he was concerned. His daughter-in-law beamed.

Another thing he liked to talk to me about was our shared Lutheran heritage. I heard many stories about his Uncle Luther. Roy’s grandfather, Henry, was an orphan. Doug has worked hard the last couple years to see if he could find Henry’s parents. We determined they likely died in the cholera epidemic, but we have no concrete proof of who they were. I know Doug wishes he could’ve found them before his father died, but I’m sure it meant a lot to Roy to know how hard he was trying to.

Grief doesn’t operate on a schedule. There may be stages, but there isn’t a timeline. It hits us when it hits us . . . I’ve written about that so many times before. Today, it hit me hard . . . there isn’t an explanation for it. It just is.

My father-in-law was a good man. He loved his family, and worked hard to provide for them and future generations. I miss him. A lot.

Green Grass of Summer

The guys who take care of the landscaping in the neighborhood we live in are here today. I don’t know if it is because of all the rain we’ve gotten this spring, or if I’m just paying more attention, but it seemed especially fragrant when they mowed the lawn today.

It, of course, takes me back to my days growing up in Western New York. My grandfather kept the grounds around our house meticulously cared for. The only time I ever saw the grass overgrown was when we’d return from spending most of the summer in the Adirondacks. It had to have been a sure sign that we were out of town. In fact, one year when we returned, the house had been broken into. The robbers didn’t take much. They were about to open a drawer in the bedroom where they would’ve found a loot, but evidently something made them stop in the midst. The only thing I remember they took were steaks from the freezer.

Anyway, back to the grass. Most of the land around my grandparents’ house was landscaped. There was a row of big trees that separated the front of the grounds from the back, where my grandfather grew a very large garden. Everywhere else, there was lawn. In the midst were big, tall trees, beds of flowers, evergreens, and a rock garden. It took my grandfather most of two days to mow all of it. Maybe longer. When I got old enough, I helped . . . it was a riding lawnmower after all, and what kid wouldn’t have wanted to help?

There is nothing like the smell of fresh cut grass. It reminds me of strawberry and raspberry picking, swimming in Buffalo Creek, chicken barbecues, riding bikes, softball, and tennis. It makes me yearn to go home.

We intended to try to get back there this summer, but it is looking less and less promising. Which is hugely disappointing. Frank has been to my hometown, but Beckett hasn’t. And it was so long ago, I doubt Frank remembers much of it.

There is a part of me that longs to move back. To relive those days of waking to birdsong, windows wide open, the hum of the lawn mower, and the smells of summer. I learned all too well the last time I visited that going back isn’t possible. The logic though, doesn’t diminish the tug on my heartstrings.