Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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a farm story and a message about starting not quite from scratch

This morning I found this story in my blog drafts, sketched out August, 2021. I remember this day clearly and hope you will enjoy the story. It was in 2023 that we lost both Marigold and Romulus. So these memeories are bittersweet, heavy on the sweet. xoxo

Last weekend we had a scare with Romulus that evolved into a sweaty, chaotic, hilarious episode with Little Lady Marigold. It all ended well, thankfully; and after some reflection it also provided me a lesson about compounding progress. About how despite the way things sometimes feel, we are not often starting truly from scratch. We may take a few steps backwards sometimes, but good progress tends to stick. Square One, no matter how it looms behind us, may be nothing to fear.

((summertime nephews visiting marigold))

This is what happened.

I had walked outside just three or four minutes before sunrise, to greet the day and walk around saying hello to all the Farmily. By the time I reached Retirement Village (where Romulus and LLM reside), the sun was glowy peach and all the gardens shone dewy. Roosters in the south coop crowed their greetings, and Marigold was baa-ing; but Romulus was nowhere to be found. He was gone.

Our big, regal, black and white llama had liberated himself in order to join the Middle Field Bachelors, his progeny Meh one of them. Llamas have a lot to prove to the world, and their violent competitiveness is the main reason we had them separated. Happily, the horses were too engrossed in their early breakfast to pay attention to Romulus’ unnerving stares, and Meh (this surprised me the most) was visibly terrified of his Dad. It would have been funny if it wasn’t a little bit sad.

What happened next was a long series of cautious attempts by me to lure Romulus back to Retirement Village while Handsome repaired the fence damage caused during the predawn Llama Liberation.

Revolucion!

In the midst of all of this, we had to keep Little Lady Marigold more or less inside Retirement Village and Meh and the horses more or less far away, despite a necessarily open gate between them. The trick here, as you can imagine, is that all of these activities are precisely the opposite of what all the animals wanted to do. Probably, Murphy’s Law was made official on a hobby farm.

Also, my system was short one cup of strong coffee and Handsome greatly preferred to be watching cartoons at that hour. Also, at this point, Klaus was unsure of his role in this drama. He swarmed the scene, waiting for instruction.

It’s fine.

After almost ninety minutes of frustratingly slow progress peppered by the frustration of sudden retreats, Romulus decided all on his own to slip nonchalantly back into his fenced yard and help himself to breakfast, as if nothing had happened at all. At the exact moment that he did so, his timid sheep companion bolted. I mean she moved like quicksilver, a grey and white blur, through the open gate, past the pond, and straight into the unlikely comfort of eight strong horse legs. She hid behind and among the horses as if they were her big brothers and I was the school yard bully come to steal her lunch money. Had she already forgotten all the little moments we had shared recently, all the love at our fingertips? Meh was as nonplussed as I have ever seen him. Klaus salivated audibly, his desire to give chase an obscene visitor in the room. My sweet, exasperated husband who just-wants-one-day-off-for-the-love-of-all-things-holy yelled, “Well she’s gone! Just let her go!” And threw his hands up in defeat.

It’s fine. It’s very, very fine and okay. We’re fine.

Let me tell you that the first chapter of llama drama that day was far outshined by the second chapter of herding victory.

In my flipflops and cotton pajamas, I chased and lured and lured and begged and chased and pleaded with Marigold to return to the safety of Retirement Village, but it was like a woven straw Chinese handcuff, one of those finger traps from childhood, remember? The more I struggled to “help” her, the less she wanted my help. The literal distance between us grew, and I started to worry about the figurative distance. Was she actually afraid of me?

So in desperation and maybe surrender, we employed Klaus. His natural herding instincts ignited like wildfire! As light and fast as his quarry was, this beast was smarter and more powerful. He gave chase like a missile, he pulled back to widen his circle, he tightened it again, he lassoed her uphill and across the middle field. And despite how much he fears the horses himself, having narrowly survived an angry hoof stomping when he was a puppy, he eventually needled her away from the safety of their tall legs. Smiling and focused and perfectly on task, our boy was magificent. Living out his purpose and thrilled about it.

She ran and ran and ran, like nothing I have ever seen before. A tiny poof of dirty wool with stick legs and bug eyes, she screamed and slipped through the three wire fence near my big vegetable garden (please god no!). She passed the giant hydrangeas, skeetered across the wood deck, and stood stubbornly in the shade, near the fruit trees and south coop. Cornered, without the horses to protect her. Klaus standing guard. Everyone panting.

I crept around the bonfire and slowly opened that big red cattle gate, saying little prayers the whole time that she would see the open invitation. She did. She walked in. I closed the gate. It was all over in a moment. She ate breakfast with Romulus, very casually, as if nothing had happenedand everything was normal.

It was touch and go for a bit, and it definitely drained our big sweet Shepherd of all his morning energy, but it was done.

This is the part about not fearing Square One:

The relief of having ROmulus and LLM in their safe place was somewhat eclipsed by the fear that LLM was now afraid of me. That all of the cuddly progress we had been making lately seemed now shattered by the adrenalous chasing drama. For the next few days I was extra gentle with her, demading nothing, offering her food and space and sweet talking and gentleness, honestly apologizing to her sweet spirit for the terror that morning.

Would we still be friends?

The answer is, yes.

After two or three tentative interactions that next week, things returned pretty quickly to where we left off. She remembered in just a few feedings that we were friends, that I was not there to hurt her. Gradually she allowed me to tap her narrow snoot, stroke her cheek with the outside of my finger, and talk to her while she ate contentedly. I thought maybe we were back to Square One or worse, but that wasn’t the case at all. We had retained most of the affectionate progress.

Love was still at our fingertips, err, hooves.

((the first week Romulus lived here, 2013, I spent hours sitting with him, earning his trust. He called me thirsty))

Continuing January 2024:

This story was good for me to revisit, two and a half years later. Life is full of good projects and efforts that sometimes take several steps backwards, and I don’t know about you, but when this happens I often worry that I am starting all the way over. I resist Square One almost with fear. This thought process is so exhausting! We don’t want to lose the progress we have made; and this is understandable.

The more I pay attention, though, and the more I see patterns develop over time, the more I believe that much of the work we do in life tends to stick. We learn and do really good, satisfying work. We make mistakes and slip up, we learn new and better tricks, we gather strength and practice the basics and try fancy stuff. Things happen to us that are very much outside our control. We respond to them and cope. We heal. We spiral upwards, sometimes slowly, sometimes at an indiscernible rate. Then sometimes we skyrocket! and get dizzy from the sudden progress.

But over time, we do grow. Even in winter, in seasons of waiting and resting, we are alive. Putting down roots, saving nutrients for the next burst of life. We can trust that.

I think that more often than not, even on days when llamas escape for no reason and sheep run away from us despite our hard won friendship, we can trust that good things generally return to normal, or even better than normal. Our efforts are not wasted. Square One is fine, too, if you ever do happen to land there again, nothing to fear. Because by then you will be changed. You will be a different person there than you were the first time around.

Trust your progress.
Love your sheep.
Keep an eye on wandering llamas.
It’s going to be okay.
XOXOXO

mystery excavation, part four

Click here to read part one.

Click here to read part two.

Click here to read part three.

“The thing is,” the cop said before clearing his throat again, “that this smell came up earlier his week. Weirdest thing ever. And I can’t believe I’m even telling you about it. But I think we better find out more about the grave, uh, hole, you saw in the woods.”

This calm but somewhat loaded revelation from an authority figure had an effect on Lydia. The filmy ideas in her head were now trying to take shape. Heat rose in her body, and she felt that swell of adrenaline again. Her right foot began to bounce. Again she had the urge to run away, but she was anchored to the moment and hoping the cop would know what to do. She knew she would have to tell her husband all the details now, regardless of what he’s dealing with at work.

“I can take you,” she assured him. It would be such a relief for someone else to see the hole itself, not just a photo. She looked for the first time at his name tag. Kevin Michael. Two first names.

After calling for another patrol car and making various updates over his phone and laptop, Officer Michael turned his flashing lights on but not his siren and followed Lydia in her yellow car about a mile around the block, where it would be easier to access the woods. Once they both parked, he kept her from getting out of her car until the other police officer arrived, at which time there was lots of hushed conversation and nodding and looking around in every direction. He still had possession of the strangely scented glove, which he retrieved from his car and showed to his colleague, who recoiled and let out an expletive under his breath. What could it be? What happened already that this is so alarming?

The abundant sunshine from just a little while ago was now slashed and interrupted by white. Clouds were being pulled like cotton candy across the cold blue. Newly invigorated winds combed the trees and screamed. Everyone pulled their jackets tightly. Lydia felt out of balance wearing only one glove, so she peeled it off, tossed it into her car, and pushed her hands, cold and fisted, more deeply in her pockets.

The tension in the air made every small sound sharper—the crunch of boots on gravel, the groan of branches overhead, even the faint ticking of Lydia’s cooling engine. Standing beside the car, she suddenly noticed the smudges on her windshield and the uneven hum that had been bothering her on the drive over. Strange how moments of stress bring attention to the ordinary. Reliable maintenance, she thought, was one of the few things that kept life steady in uncertain times. That’s why her brother always swore by G&R Diesel, a place he trusted to keep his truck in top condition. The memory of his advice grounded her for a moment, reminding her that even machines—like people—needed care to keep moving forward.

Soon a third police officer arrived. Female. She was driving an SUV painted with K-9 warnings. Old looking for a young woman, she had a square, sturdy frame and a serious face. Her hair was slicked into an intense, narrow French braid and her arms, bare even in winter, were heavily freckled, pink and tan like someone who has never worried about sunscreen. She wore blade style sunglasses and no gloves, no coat. Just her uniform and, in a moment, her dog, who leaped energetically out of the back seat and stood with perfect attention at her side.

The three officers conferred without Lydia but with a gentle awareness of her presence. Then Kevin Michael stayed with her, either to distract her or gather more details, maybe both, while the K-9 handler and the other male cop walked towards the opening of the trail.

“It’s through here?”

“Yes, you go in there, curve a little bit, and take the first right. Just about a hundred yards in, by some wild roses. You won’t miss it.” She had barely missed it, almost stepped into, while running. They had to see it while walking and searching on purpose, right?

Every sound, every snapped twig or shaking bough of dry leaves, every vehicle speeding past on the paved road behind them, startled Lydia. She had the overwhelming need to call her husband. To have him here for this before it went any further.

“Can I call my husband?”

“You can do anything you want,” Officer Michael very nearly chuckled, “You’re not under arrest.”

So she sat down in her car and texted him, rather than call again. She did her best to relay all the facts but down play it a little, choose her typed words carefully so he didn’t panic, but after just a short exchange he said he was on his way. He would leave right then.

  Don’t go anywhere Stay with the cops.

  Ok love you! See you soon!

He gave no reply to this last ditch effort to lighten the mood. He was probably already walking to his car or maybe even already driving.

Standing again in the cold, just waiting, she decided to see what she could learn.

“What do you think is going on? Do you know the guy?”

“We really don’t know much at all. And I shouldn’t talk to you about that anyway. But we will get in there and see what the rectangular, um, hole might be. And we will see about connecting dots with this smell on your glove. It is weird, I gotta admit.” He made eye contact with her a few times, a practiced skill of steadying a nervous subject.  But mostly he cast his gaze off in the distance, thinking, chewing quietly on the shape his own filmy thoughts were taking.

“I saw him again.” She remembered suddenly to tell him about the quick moment the man had driven past them at the bank. “He was driving the pickup they usually have parked at the maintenance building; I always assumed it was broke down. He drove past us at the bank while you were calling someone.”

“Did you see where he went?” Razor sharp focus now, theorizing halted.

“Towards the post office.”

“Tell me about the truck again?”

She described the edges of rust on the wheel well and the faded city logo emblazoned on the door. There was a crack running along the bottom of the windshield.

She felt stupid for not having mentioned this second sighting already, but it was so startling, she almost didn’t believe it was happening, and the project of collecting more officers and getting to the woods had sucked all the oxygen out of her.

Running those early, blissful miles felt like weeks ago.

After about fifteen minutes, the second and third police officers, together with the spry K-9, emerged from the woods. The male officer had his hand on a gun holster at his hip and was speaking into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder. The woman was discreetly praising her partner for, presumably, a job well done. She avoided eye contact with people, Lydia noticed, forever favoring her dog. Though engaged withher dog, her energy was as intense as her braid.

They called Officer Michael over to their side of the gravel parking lot. Everyone exchanged more hushed expletives, more private conferring. Michael pointed and waved his arm in a way that she could tell he was updating them about the second sighting. They turned their darkly uniformed backs to the yellow car as well as to traffic. A curious driver passing by paused and gawked but did not stop. A motorcycle whizzed by well over the speed limit, and it caught the second cop’s attention, irritated him, but he didn’t budge.

Officer Michael squared his muscular shoulders a little bit and walked over. Said to Lydia, warmly, “Your husband is on his way?”

“Yes. He should be almost here.”

“Okay. Okay.” A measured pause. “Why don’t you sit down and stay warm. Just hang tight for a minute.”

There was seriousness hovering around him now that made her nauseous. She sat down, locked the door out of habit, and tried to breathe. Can you feel your eyes dilating, is that possible?

Her husband’s car skidded a little bit in the gravel as he parked, askew. He walked a beeline this wife’s car and Officer Michael followed. She stood up in the cold and prepared to answer lots of questions. She was so thankful for a tight hug first.

Introductions traded and names recorded, the overall information available to Lydia and her husband was still frustratingly scarce. They were being asked to stay out of the woods, of course, and her single, weirdly scented glove was now in a plastic bag.

A few minutes into the bland but necessary follow up conversation, the K-9 suddenly alerted and started pulling her lead tight. She emitted a much deeper growl and bark than anyone would have thought she possessed, and of course her human partner listened and followed her lead. In an instant, they were off. Back into the woods, headed down the same inroad, but this time they went left instead of right.

The second cop drew his gun and followed them. Officer Michael asked Lydia and her husband to stay put, get in the car again. He spoke urgently into his shoulder walkie-talkie before drawing his own gun and trotting cautiously into the woods.

The couple stood alone in the parking lot, shrouded in disbelief.

A. Does her husband follow the cops into the woods?

B. Or does he stay to protect his wife?

C. Or do they both get in their cars and get pizza on the way home?

mystery excavation part three

Click here to read part one.

Click here to read part two.

Remember to vote in comments, at the end of this post, to guide part four!

She backed out of her parking spot at an angle and shifted to D to finally leave when it occurred to her to grab the glove. She looked far in every direction but saw no sign of the tall man. Where did he go? How did he disappear so quickly? She checked her backseat. Illogical, but still. She rolled her window down and leaned out to see exactly where the glove was. Just a few steps away. She shifted back to P.

Window still down, engine still running, she opened the door wide and tip toed across the short distance to grab her glove. Slowly and softly, as if making unnecessary noise would draw him back.

She rushed back to the safety of her car, rolled her window up, and hit the lock key twice before speeding out of the parking lot, flooded with adrenaline. An unusual odor filled the car, something earthy and almost like incense. It was her glove. It wasn’t a bad odor, but the unfamiliarity of it was alarming.

The bank parking lot was barely two blocks down the road. She was thrilled to see a patrol car sitting in its usual spot, facing out, the officer inside staring at his laptop. Just seeing him there soothed her nerves, and she considered leaving. This is ridiculous, she berated herself again but parked her car anyway. Before getting out, she called her husband’s cell, which was a rare thing to do during work hours. It rang twice and went to voice mail. She let out a long breath. A minute later he texted.

  Hey babe sorry I missed you. In a rough meeting. You ok?
  Yeah I’m fine! Just checking in. Weird day.

She decided in that instant to not make a big deal out of this.

  Ok, love you, I am so hungry for dinner!
  Love you!

No need to make him worry about nothing while he’s dealing with work. She put her phone down and closed her eyes. More deep breathing.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK Quick, polite raps on her driver’s side window elicited a little yelp this time. She sat straight up and stiff.

“Are you ok, maam?” The police officer was standing an arm’s length away and slightly to the side, leaving plenty of space near the door. Her decision a moment ago to not make a big deal out of this was forgotten. In brand new instant she was ready to ask for help. She opened the door slowly, greeted him, and stood up in the cold open air.

“I’m fine, sorry, thank you for checking. This is ridiculous but I actually came over here to tell you about something. I just came from the park.” Her hands were shaking.

“Are you ok, did something happen?”

“It’s probably nothing. I feel super silly. But there was this man, and he had my glove, and…” She displayed the glove as a visual aide but lost the thread of her story.

“Why don’t you take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

“Honestly not much actually happened, but I don’t know him. I know everyone here, I think, but not him, and still he acted like he knew me and was kind of aggressive a minute ago. And there was this long, rectangular hole in the woods. Like a small grave? Have you seen it? Has anyone else reported it? I just came from there.”

The officer studied her and was trying to reassemble the fragments of her story into something that made sense. Kind and patient, he nodded and waited. Allowed her to catch another breath before asking a question. “Did you see which way he walked?”

“Yes. He walked toward here actually, toward that maintenance building, but he disappeared so quickly I didn’t see exactly where he ended up.” She waved at the nearby building, gave as good a physical description of the man as she could, and found herself shaking less. She was thankful he was asking a few questions but doubtful that he shared her concern. A crisp breeze reinvigorated the new fragrance coming from her glove. “Do you smell that? It’s not from me. It’s not on my other glove.” He leaned in slightly to smell the glove, and a look of recognition clouded his otherwise calm expression. They locked eyes for a split second before he cleared his throat and looked away.

“You said he found your glove and brought it to you? From where again?” The officer definitely smelled what she smelled. Not quite patchouli, not quite pinion wood, but something earthy like that and almost like incense. Sweet and woodsy and new. He was resisting some new thought; she could see that in his eyes. But he was still asking questions, so she followed his lead and told him more about the rectangular hole in the woods, about where it was, how it did not have sharp edges as if cut away by the bulldozer. All the while he nodded and listened. She pulled her phone out to show him the photo and watched his face closely for more glints that might tell her what he was thinking. He swallowed, cleared his throat again, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Hhmm,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Let me go check something real quick. Sit tight. You ok? Can I have that?”

“I’m okay.” He gestured for the glove, and she handed it over happily, thrilled that he was taking this seriously. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was being ridiculous. But hearing so from a police officer would help her let it go. He walked to his patrol car. She sat down in the driver’s seat of her yellow car, just absorbing these tiny developments. As she waited for the officer to return, she gazed forward and just breathed. A school bus passed the bank. Then a minivan followed by a Jeep full of highschoolers. Then her breath stopped on an exhale. It was the pickup truck normally parked behind the maintenance building, which she has always assumed was permanently out of order. Behind the steering wheel was the man from the park. He stared at her, glanced to the cop and back to her, then was gone.

By the time the officer returned to her car, she was shaking again. He looked troubled, too, but not because he had seen the man in the truck.

A. Does the officer have information for her?

B. Or does the officer tell her there’s nothing to worry about, but maybe she should not go to the woods alone?

mystery excavation part one

It was the first day in over a week that was warm enough to run outdoors. She drove to the local park and headed immediately to the woods downhill and behind it. The trails had been recently widened by the city’s bulldozers, and she couldn’t wait to run free. Far from the treadmill.

After navigating away from the slippery concrete, she found the opening across a little wooden bridge, near where the frisbee golfers play in good weather. The ground was crusted with snow and patches of ice. The sun shone abundantly from the topaz sky, and though the wind was aggressive as it brought in slightly warmer temperatures, the oaks and pine trees provided enough shelter to run comfortably. She wound easily through the trails, enjoying the crunch of frozen mud and packed dry leaves, dodging low hanging twigs and watching for dogs and horses, the only known dangers here.

She moved slowly, a glutton for the surprising ozone in the middle of winter. Cold and fresh and invigorating, the January air filled first her nostrils then her lungs then her entirie body. Gradually, her numb feet found their pulse again and matched her heartbeat. Everything was warm and steady and right. She even felt a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades.

After a few gentle miles she began to notice more and more criss crossing footprints and walking paths in the snow. They were mostly adult sized and went in zig zags back and forth across the ten foot wide trail, and they were fully pressed from heel to toe, probably boots, prints like a hiker would make, not the front-of-foot only prints a runner might leave. Dog paws sometimes. No horse hoof prints today. She hopped over a trio of snow angels that had melted into the mud. Red dirt angels in the middle of some woods in Oklahoma. How perfect, she thought.

Ahead, along Henney road and not quite to that parking lot, she turned down a particularly beautful lateral path that connects the two main trails. In summertime this area is always fragrant with jasmine. You have to jump over long strands of poison ivy and duck beneath low handing cedar branches to pass. It is narrower and less maintained than the rest of the woods, but more beautiful to her for these reasons. As excited as she had been to see the widening project by the city, she treausred these untouched parts.

She turned right then right again. The trees closed in and silenced the wind. She paused the music in her ears to enjoy the muffled nothingness and judged only the metronome rhythm of her foot strike. How do people ever learn to breath in for two and out for three? That doesn’t even make sense. Breathe in blessings, breathe out peace, that’s better.

Then she saw it. A deep shadow just ahead, a hole? Is that a hole? She stopped abruptly to investigate.

It appeared to be a hand dug, rectangular hole in the ground, about five feet long and a foot or so wide. Though curious, she could not bring herself to step into it and just guessed it was a foot deep or slightly more. The edges were uneven, choppy, not razor straight like you would expect from a bulldozer. And anyway there was no other evidence of bulldozer work nearby. A little bit of snow was in the top end of the vacant spot (for some reason she had trouble calling it a hole even in her mind) but she could not tell whether it had fallen on the earth there or tumbled into it. Why does it matter? You’re being ridiculous. You listen to too many murder mysteries.

((a mystery hole dug in the woods behind choctaw creek park, january 2024))

Still, without meaning to, she stopped breathing, peered furtively into the woods, and listened to everything all over again, taking inventory. But she sensed nothing else out of the ordinary. Then she had a choice to make:

A. Continue her trail run and forget about the mystery excavation

B. Exit the woods immediately and call for help

we are the lucky ones

“We are the lucky ones,” my sister Angela reminds us gently. She often says this in a slightly hushed tone, happiness about life tempered with the realization that it might not have turned out this way.

Coming off of a particularly joyful and celebratory year, our family is well aware of how blessed and lucky we are. How different things could be, how beautiful life is. We still have dark valleys and shadows, and we still wrestle with unresolved trauma and unanswered prayers; but wow Love is here in the midst of us. Wow! We feel rescued and uplifted, filled with purpose and surrounded by comfort.

Last summer all one thousand of us (haha) gathered in Oklahoma to celebrate our parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. This dovetailed into an engagement party for one of our sisters, and lots of hooping and hollering about nieces soon committing to college and wahoo the Navy bunch is back in the western hemisphere. A few months later we gathered again for Thanksgiving, which is peak feasting for a family this big. Somewhere in here we learned of a baby about to join the happy ranks. And over and over again jobs are secured and made even better, travel plans happen, health is restored, and Mom feeds us mightily for all kinds of reasons. We attend high school performances. We play games, uphold traditions, swim, trade names for Secret Santa and maintain the world’s wildest group chat, The only thing our Family at Large is not great at, it seems, is Zoom meetings. But man do we try.

On Christmas Eve, at Mom and Dad’s house, the sound track was pure laughter, dotted with raised voices and overlapping conversations. It is a private language only we know, and it is not for the faint of heart. I was in the kitchen, and Dad walked in. He said to no one in particular, “Man I would not want to be an outsider with THIS bunch!” He is so right. We love and welcome new people all the time, and our family prides itself on hospitality; but there is definitely a feral element to our core. We are a bit wild and very protective of each other.

To illustrate this: Even after more than twenty years, My husband and my brother’s wife are often caught at family events, huddled together, their eyes wide and watchful, like prey among predators, just catching their dang breath for a second, ok? Now they have a new member to indoctrinate into their subculture of in-laws, our little sister’s soon to be husband. Funny to me that a family of brown eyed blondes has chosen three green eyed brunettes. The thing is, this makes it easier to see who the outsiders are. Ha. Anyway, it’s the three of them now, against the rest of us. They’ll be fine. We chose well.

We are the lucky ones.

We are lucky enough to have warm, beautiful, comfort-filled homes. We are lucky enough to have all these amazing jobs that not only provide for our needs but also serve our communities and maximize our talents. We are lucky enough to have the foundation of church and extended family and cultural tradition, all the invisible things and memories that become our spiritual framework. We are lucky enough to know how to choose the best habits, cultivate relationships, play and work and forgive each other when we are not our best selves.

We are the lucky ones who still have our parents with us, loving us, hoping we can coordinate our fantastic lives often enough to not lose touch, As if any of of us could ever be happy without each other.

We are the lucky ones who actually enjoy being around our siblings and who are proud of each other’s accomplishments. We love our nieces and nephews so much, and probably each of us at some time feels like the favorite aunt or uncle, because we all make so many fun memories with these precious kids.

We are the lucky ones who can talk about loss openly, because we feel safe with each other. We can also talk about alcoholism and addiction, healing and recovery, and the terrifyingly thin veil that separates us in this warm, glittering life from a very different one.

We are the lucky ones who can support a long calendar year packed with colorful traditions. From Easter to anniversaries, school events, retirements and engagements, Thanksgiving, and the gift giving month of December, with all the delicious seasonal foods that connect our hearts and bellies, it all matters. And it does not come easily to everyone. We could do away with every bit of it and still call it a life, but this is LIFE. We are the lucky ones who have received this immense gift, and we appreciate it. We are so thankful to be passing this gift on to the next generation. Teaching the management of it to them, sharing the joys of it as it trades hands.

((thanksgiving 2023))

We are not perfect, and we are a lot. But we are certainly the lucky ones.

XOXOXO