tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82539091611358597452024-03-15T12:05:30.034-04:00Just One FootJust One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.comBlogger413125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-22180146132493338662016-05-24T14:50:00.000-04:002016-05-24T14:50:14.136-04:00Where We Got the Bowls<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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Way back when Sam was still a diaper wearing person who toddled more than walked, he was a quiet kid. Then he stopped toddling and picked up a big boy gait, and we realized he was still quiet. Too quiet. One intense evaluation by a speech therapist later and we had our confirmation. Sam had serious speech delays.</div>
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<br /> I should have seen it coming. We were very familiar with speech therapists already. His older brother has a metabolic disorder that left in its wake a pretty nasty case of low muscle tone. Having weak muscles in your jaw, lips and tongue make it difficult to form words correctly. We spent years hanging out in the speech therapist's office, working on strengthening the muscles around his mouth.</div>
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<br /> By the time Sam was born his big brother was speaking well and on the fast track to normal speech.</div>
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<br /> I assumed I knew what to look for in Sam's speech development, since his brother's speech therapist had become one of my best friends in Missouri. (We did spend a lot of time together, more than I spent with any 'regular' friends and we were both passionate about my sweet boy. There's nothing more bonding than someone loving your kid almost as much as you do)</div>
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<br /> So when we made the big move to D.C. and Sam continued to be an easy going toddler, I was not concerned. I was watching for 'mushy speech' and I was not hearing it. I was watching for mispronounced words and I was not hearing any.</div>
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<br /> That was the problem. I wasn't hearing anything. My baby was mute. Not exactly mute. He made sounds. But nothing close to language.</div>
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<br /> It was when he had passed his second birthday and I realized he had never said the word 'NO!" that I became alarmed. What two year old (or eighteen month old, for that matter?) has not pounded his fist on the highchair tray and yelled NO! in the middle of dinner?</div>
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<br /> I should have noticed it earlier. But I was watching for zebras, and antelopes showed up. Plus we had just packed up our four young children, all born in Missouri, and moved them from the only city they had ever lived in, plunking them down in the middle of the metropolis of Washington D.C. (just months after 9/11, mind you.)</div>
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<br /> There was a lot of unpacking and signing up for schools, and figuring out the metro lines stuff going on. The fact that Sam was quiet was not noticed because he was...well...quiet. The squeaky wheel thing and all that.</div>
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<br /> So suddenly I noticed and found the box with the address book in it so I could call best friend speech therapist back in Missouri. She confirmed my concerns and advised I get on the case immediately.</div>
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<br /> Thus began Sam's journey with speech therapists. But this time we were not working on blowing bubbles and cotton balls to get stronger lips. We were working on finding sounds to make into words.</div>
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<br /> We had been doing baby signs with him and they became his life saver. He could express, through basic signs, what he wanted. I was introduced to the amazing Signing Time videos. They helped our whole family, including grandparents, understand how to communicate with our youngest child.</div>
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<br /> But part of the problem with having no speech as a one, then two, then three year old, is not being able to express how you feel. He didn't bombard me with constant questions through the grocery store, like his siblings had done. There was no discussing his favorite desires for Christmas that year. He didn't have the opportunity to question how the sky was made or why fruit loops don’t grow on trees. The basic needs were communicated but I missed knowing what my boy was <b><i>thinking</i></b>.</div>
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<br /> Then one day, after months and months of speech therapy, the language started to come. Slowly, slowly we built up words into sentences and Sam started to realize he could talk. He could ask questions and state his feelings. And it was fun to see what he had been carrying around inside that head all those quiet months.</div>
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<br /> One of my favorite moments came when he had become a tall, confident three-year-old. He sidled up to the counter and asked for a bowl of breakfast cereal. "Me want cee-yal, mama".</div>
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<br /> And as I poured out the frosted flakes and slopped on the milk my sweet boy looked up to me and said, oh so seriously, "Where we get dees bowls, mama?"</div>
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<br /> All those months of silence and my boy had been wondering where I'd gotten the bowls.</div>
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<br /> It makes me wonder what else he had been wondering, that he never got to ask.</div>
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<br /> I met with his school speech therapist today and he is right on track. He will still receive services through the summer and then into second grade, but most people who meet him would never know he ever struggled with finding language. We feel blessed to have been able to shower him with the best specialists in every city we've lived in.</div>
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<br /> Sometimes I think back to Sam's preschool days and wonder what treasures we missed. Sam is a very creative kid and I wonder what questions he had about the world around him that he could never ask because language was foreign to him. What magical profound thoughts circled through his preschooler brain and had no way of getting out? I will never know the answers to these questions but I am thankful anyway. So thankful that he finally did master our language and is able to fit right in to his second-grade class today. Thankful that he had great teachers along the way who brought out the best in him.</div>
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And also thankful that he made peace finally, with where we got the bowls.</div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-75683371968097771162016-05-24T14:39:00.001-04:002016-05-24T14:40:45.455-04:00Changing in the Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">In two weeks I will fill my Jeep with a few of my young adult children and we will drive to Texas for a wedding and a reunion. The bride is my niece, and the reunion was an obvious extension of her well-planned nuptials. Of course there have been the usual preparations for this trip. The haircuts, the shopping for appropriate clothes, the formalities of getting off work. But I've been doing unexpected mental preparations too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">As the weeks have flown by I've found myself thinking a lot about who I am. Who I am in relation to these people, these 4 siblings I will go spend time with and make new memories with. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">We all live in different states now. We are all in our late 40s and early 50s. We've become the adults we are going to be. We've made life choices and landed in the place life has designed for us. We are no longer 'young', with a landscape of years ahead of us to navigate. The people we were when we last shared a house together, and bedrooms in common, is on a far off horizon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">We grew up in a foster home. As in, our parents were foster parents. I mention this because, as is true with many decisions your parents make, this fact changed us as we navigated those waters. It changed us as a family, and it changed us as individuals. Sharing our home, and our parents, made us see life a bit differently than our peers who went home to regular families. I can't speak for my siblings, but after years of pondering, I know how that heritage affected me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Another fact of our childhood is that we grew up in the Baptist church. As in, we were always in church - Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. Then youth group activities as they appeared throughout the week. Some of us (raising my hand) clung tightly to those teachings and some of us strayed a bit in our teen and college years, before circling back. But it shaped us, nonetheless. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">College years hit and we scattered. The foster siblings were long gone. Mom and Dad were figuring out how to do the empty nest thing on a large scale, and how to save their strained marriage. Each of us picked a path that fit who we were, whether that be college close to home, college far away, or a short stint in the military. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">In the early 1990s, we gathered when we could. We felt a common bond, having survived growing up in an unusual household dynamic. We liked beginning to know each other as grown-ups, with all the childhood baggage left behind. We still tended to follow birth order rules but it was generally comforting to see each other making our way in the world of adulthood.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">We lost our mom in the middle of that decade. Way too early. It changed the balance. The hub of the wheel was gone. We scrambled to figure out who we were as a family without her. Dad worked hard to keep us connected, but the equilibrium of our unit was off kilter for a while. He remarried, with blessings from all of us, and things settled into a new normal. A less connected normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Decades passed too quickly. Those toddlers in the home movies graduated from elementary school and then suddenly were of driving age. We had all found paths in different directions and lives in different states. Phone calls were made from land lines until texting arrived to help us stay connected. But with the chaos of life with older kids and the complication of some major health issues in my own family, I was suddenly only seeing my siblings every few years, calling occasionally in between.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">We all knew we loved and respected each other. Even if reality said we really didn't know each other that well anymore. I like to think my nieces and nephews know Aunt Judy loves them and thinks of them often, but there are no backyard barbecues to prove that anymore. I had to come to peace with the fact that I don't know how many times they've had a broken arm, or who they consider their best friend. Facebook helps, but it's not a substitute for really knowing a young person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">The past ten years I've changed a lot. Who I am, who I have become, what I believe in, have all been refined. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I hit my early forties and realized I needed to start being true to myself. I re-thought some of the beliefs I'd held for much of my life. I mixed in the memories of the suffering I saw and heard about from foster siblings. I weighed the life stories of many people I've met in adulthood, who struggled in their own ways. Many of my childhood beliefs didn't line up anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I purged some, and re-established others. I really took the time to ponder every belief I held and weigh it carefully before I added it back into the pile. My beliefs were no longer sprouted from ideals, but from real life experiences with real life citizens of the earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I stopped being the quiet one who just agreed so I wouldn't be forced to disagree. After feeling very pigeon-holed in high school I deliberately went to college three hours away and found my voice. I started to become the more outgoing person I had always wanted to be. I married my best friend and, with his encouragement, I have, year after year, found my stride. I've taken chances and pursued opportunities. I've chipped away at that old me, the one who silently grew up behind two older sisters with strong personalities and perfect Farrah Fawcett hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">The hard part has been how many of those beliefs no longer line up with the beliefs I had as a 20 something. Or with the beliefs of some of my family members. We all came from the same pot. But we all grew into individual beings. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Formed from our adult life experiences, that were continually mixed with our childhood teachings, and sprinkled with our adult interactions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I'm perfectly okay that all five of us might now have distinctly different beliefs. In fact, I cherish it. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I can only hope that my siblings have also examined their lives and become the people they truly want to be. It will make them the most at peace with their future and the most content in their everyday lives. As we are all considering what an empty nest looks and feels like, knowing who we are inside is the first step in understanding where we should wander next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I look forward to being in the same room as my Dad, stepmom, and 4 siblings. The joking and camaraderie come easily. We were purposefully raised to be kind and respectful. We practice those skills on each other. I think we all appreciate the fact that being together is so rare that it's not useful to spend our time disagreeing about things. Having lost our mother so early we are very in tune with how fragile and unpredictable life can be. It's important to make every memory count.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">But I go to this reunion, and this well anticipated gathering feeling a bit fragile. I fear that I will be pigeon holed right back into that shy, quiet fifteen-year-old my siblings knew so long ago. Or that not yet refined 25 year old I see in the old home movies. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">As siblings we had our balance, and it's easy to go back there. Oldest one in charge. Youngest one still thought of as the baby, even if he'll soon be leaving his forties. But I'm ready to be seen as me. The almost 50 year old me. The one I've worked hard to become. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Until then, every sad song will bring tears, touching a nostalgic place deep inside me, as I anticipate finally spending time with my core family. My mom's presence will be felt and maybe acknowledged a few times, bringing mist to our eyes. We will all be thinking of how she would have loved seeing how well we've all turned out. She had some amazing grandchildren she never got to see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">But we'll all walk into the room with happy hearts in two weeks. My oldest sister might be a bit more exhausted than the rest of us, as she's spent a very long time getting ready for this magical wedding that will take place for her oldest daughter. But we'll all be happy to be there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">We'll spend an afternoon making an old traditional Polish dish our Grandma Johnson raised our dad on, and we'll rejoice when it turns out pretty close to the way she used to make it. Cousins will mingle and play games, being reminded that they are related to some pretty cool people. And my Dad will take it all in with a full heart.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Vows will be traded, toasts will be given, and a new member will be added to our large family. Then we'll all make our way back home. Back home to be the people we've been working so many decades to become. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-7240544748377208392016-05-17T20:49:00.000-04:002016-05-17T20:52:14.865-04:00At the End of a Stack of Home Movies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've been leading a double life lately. Most of the time I go about the regular business that makes up my world these days. On Mondays, I watch a friend's baby for a few hours. On Tuesdays, I write. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, you'll find me at the Rec Center, greeting people who come through the doors. On Fridays, I get the house and pantry in order so we can spend the weekend playing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But ever since a couple of small brown boxes showed up on my doorstep about two weeks ago, there have been stretches of time that I've been transported back a couple of decades. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">About six months ago I caught a great Groupon offer for transferring old media to DVD. I have moved tubs of Super 8 movie cassettes from house to house through the years and it's been on my perpetual list to get them changed over to a format I could actually look at. Most of the home movies we filmed between 1992 and 2004 have never been looked at. In 2004 we bought our first digital camera and started taking home movies on that. So the Super8 cassettes (and movie camera) just sat in tubs. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The coupon was just the kick I needed to get that project moving. I separated my 80 movie cassettes into two boxes, so if by chance the company lost or ruined a batch, it would only be half of my collection. A few months later they showed back up at my house, along with 40 DVDs, full of their contents. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I went through all of the footage for several reasons. One was because I really didn't remember what we had taped as the kids grew up. I didn't know what would be on those tapes, beyond the vague labels like 'Christmas 2000'. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another reason - I've thought about my mom a lot lately, as my nest is emptying, and I am nearing the age she was when she died. I wondered how much footage I had, or didn't have, of her. I have pictures I show my children, of a grandma they really missed out on knowing. But having them see her moving around, hearing her voice cooing at my older two when they were babies (the only time she got with my children) would help them know her in a new way. I've walked around all these years hoping, but not really knowing, that I actually had caught some of her on video. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And of course, there is the nostalgia that comes with having kids who are almost grown. The thinking back to when they were little, and the house was chaotic in a different way. The wondering where the years went. The wanting to see a glimpse into that world, and be reminded that the days indeed were long, even if the years were short.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What I actually found on those 40 DVDs (most of them 30 min long, to put things in perspective) was not what I had imagined. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The overwhelming feeling I had, as I chipped away at them, an hour here and an hour there, was that I really loved being their mom. I loved being home with them. As much as we scrimped and saved so that I didn't have to go back to work when they were little, it was all worth it. Our world was calm and mostly full of fun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We spent a lot of time dancing to music, whether it be the Jungle Book soundtrack, or the Elephant Show on television. Barney was a big part of our life, as I'd remembered, but there was so little time spent in front of a television. Computers were new and fairly crude, so having 'kids electronics' meant having a play keyboard or a junior version of a CD player. </span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bvdH1bctf98/VzuaolcVkLI/AAAAAAAAB30/UiL5DwOoiYk8Z6XA1b-xuYxptXdao_QdACLcB/s1600/20160506_141506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bvdH1bctf98/VzuaolcVkLI/AAAAAAAAB30/UiL5DwOoiYk8Z6XA1b-xuYxptXdao_QdACLcB/s320/20160506_141506.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was a lot of time spent outside, just hanging around the swingset. Chasing bees in the grass. Pouring water through a pool toy that made wheels spin around, over and over and over. Balancing thin sticks between the rings on the swingset so they could karate chop them down. </span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YXdX0DggCTg/VzuauCPAmnI/AAAAAAAAB38/12-3JlBtPdM0ugr2-SnZ2AHJ0DHeRI3JwCLcB/s1600/20160510_150031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YXdX0DggCTg/VzuauCPAmnI/AAAAAAAAB38/12-3JlBtPdM0ugr2-SnZ2AHJ0DHeRI3JwCLcB/s320/20160510_150031.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As much as Daddy traveled in his job as an archaeologist, he spent a lot of time with them. I have great language samples from them, at several ages, as they shared with him their latest thoughts, connected to him through a land line that connected our phone to another land line in a hotel near his latest dig. There was no face time or texts. It was just a line of little people, waiting for their turn to talk to daddy before it was time for baths and bed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The times he was home there was wrestling on the living room floor (three of our four are boys). Pitching baseballs and kickballs toward them as they lined up behind a cardboard home plate with a handful of neighbor kids, using our perfectly spaced trees as bases. There were chores like mowing the grass and shoveling the driveway, made more fun (and less productive) by a few little helpers with plastic replicas of his tools. </span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bzwXLMxHdpc/Vzua16o7RII/AAAAAAAAB4E/7vPVrQNsPhs15MFVCfs7Wi2FeDWV-zUmgCLcB/s1600/20160513_162346.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bzwXLMxHdpc/Vzua16o7RII/AAAAAAAAB4E/7vPVrQNsPhs15MFVCfs7Wi2FeDWV-zUmgCLcB/s320/20160513_162346.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I loved it all. I loved seeing them wearing clothes I sewed for them, my hobby for several years, as they napped and I did something just for me. I loved the simple things we celebrated, like baby brother's six-month birthday, mainly because Daddy had brought home chocolate cupcakes he'd found on sale and it coincided with someone's half birthday. I loved the secrets they thought they were whispering to me 'behind the camera' as I taped their siblings. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Mama, when will it be my turn?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I loved how they loved each other.Sure, I remember the fights they had, and the times they didn't get along, but what I see a lot in that footage is four kids who genuinely liked being together. A big sister who couldn't walk past her baby brother without touching his head and usually leaning down to kiss it. A big brother who didn't have to be asked, and rushed to a little brother's aid just because he noticed him struggling. They way they danced together, played together, shared plastic tools while Daddy fixed something. I loved every second of it.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7eB4t7vu6X8/VzubGD5L6QI/AAAAAAAAB4I/ycedmUmIkfgt9A92-YGOC-AKEP3Eno9gACLcB/s1600/20160512_114256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7eB4t7vu6X8/VzubGD5L6QI/AAAAAAAAB4I/ycedmUmIkfgt9A92-YGOC-AKEP3Eno9gACLcB/s320/20160512_114256.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">And I can't forget the way it made me feel about my spouse, watching those memories from so long ago. To remember how much I loved being home with our kids reminded me how hard he worked to make that happen. Before we even married, we agreed that we'd both be committed to the same life priorities when it came to our kids. Even when it was hard, he never flinched. He worked hard all day, all week, then came home and consciously gave me a break, fully understanding how tiresome the 24/7-ness of being a stay at home mom can be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Seeing how expertly he did his part in being involved in our kids' lives reminds me how lucky I am, and always have been. It's easy to be annoyed at a spouse who you've been attached to for over a quarter century. Some of the old annoying habits can creep up on you. But after watching this footage, I can't ignore all of his great qualities. It makes me want to call each of my kids and remind them how important picking the right spouse can be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I love the variety of houses and experiences we captured on those tapes. They begin in the early 1990s, when our oldest two were babies and we lived in a tiny one bedroom duplex while Daddy was in grad school. There are long stretches of a six-month propped in a walker and his 18-month-old big sister pushing her plastic baby stroller around the cracked driveway. We were just hanging out together, with nothing but time, waiting for Daddy to come home so we could all squeal our welcome. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KplZw6GyxYk/VzubQN8OmyI/AAAAAAAAB4M/cdXLzOOjHRQjVsJ3G8iGq8J3_OIWTXJUgCLcB/s1600/20160512_113414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KplZw6GyxYk/VzubQN8OmyI/AAAAAAAAB4M/cdXLzOOjHRQjVsJ3G8iGq8J3_OIWTXJUgCLcB/s320/20160512_113414.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then there were years in several houses in Jefferson City, when Daddy worked for the MO Highway Department. A couple of little houses within walking distance to his work (so we could have our one vehicle during the day to run errands). And a cute barn shaped house that was perfect for that stage of our life, where so many great memories were made. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have great footage of my Dad's house, before and after we lost my Mom. Running around his big backyard in the country and watching toddlers dancing to music in his living room, on the shag rug carpeting from my childhood. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then come the shots of the move to DC, when Daddy got his job with the Federal Highway Department. We spent a lot of time visiting the City on weekends, but all of our home movies in that year are of the time we spent in the little rental house we shouldn't have found, but lucked into. The games in the woods behind the house. The days and days of snow play when the area was hit with a record snowstorm that gave us 10 days in a row of snow days. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EXqAudED06c/VzubmAJAXhI/AAAAAAAAB4U/H4YkfralYS8Pn6HM29OzPo1wAbxZmENbwCKgB/s1600/20160510_173603.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EXqAudED06c/VzubmAJAXhI/AAAAAAAAB4U/H4YkfralYS8Pn6HM29OzPo1wAbxZmENbwCKgB/s320/20160510_173603.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Grandparents and friends who came to visit us show up on those tapes. Dancing around the living room with great friends from New Hampshire, and opening presents at Christmas with Daddy's parents. These are all such solid reminders of how loved we are. So perfectly and completely loved. No matter where we lived. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I actually have footage of the kids and Daddy unloading one of our two minivans, as we moved into our great big Utah house, finally able to settle down for a few years. My seven year old asking where to put the boxes he's carrying in from the garage, and I say, "Mommy and Daddy's room", and he says, "Where's that?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A stark reminder that there was a day that the Utah house was new and the lifetime of experiences we collected there had not happened. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D9Sf7O5CW3Y/VzubmKaZJiI/AAAAAAAAB4c/af-MWrF5ZDsjsqkww0FjkjjLcFHuqKlwgCKgB/s1600/20160512_111547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D9Sf7O5CW3Y/VzubmKaZJiI/AAAAAAAAB4c/af-MWrF5ZDsjsqkww0FjkjjLcFHuqKlwgCKgB/s320/20160512_111547.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then, a few months later, some footage that surprised me. In the weeks after my amputation surgery, I spent a lot of time in bed, healing. Daddy, and grandparents, helped out with kids. Then I was up on crutches, hopping through the day's chores. But while I was spending those long weeks in bed, I had entertainment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I remember playing a lot of board games in those weeks. I remember finally putting together their baby books. And I remember reading lots of picture books to them. But what I did not remember were the impromptu shows that were put on at the end of my king sized bed. At one point you can even see the tip of my wrapped stump in the foreground, as I taped my newly 3-year-old dancing and playing his toy guitar. There are almost two DVDS full of the shenanigans that went on in our master bedroom, while I waited for a leg stump to heal. These shots alone made me glad I'd made the time to dive into the footage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And, in case you were wondering, yes, there was ample footage of my mom. And it didn't make me sob, as I had assumed it would. </span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ShcD9x_I_M/VzubsnfvWmI/AAAAAAAAB4w/5Ii1AKwAXOojG9E89bG4sq6Rb5ZzrDNowCLcB/s1600/20160506_170322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ShcD9x_I_M/VzubsnfvWmI/AAAAAAAAB4w/5Ii1AKwAXOojG9E89bG4sq6Rb5ZzrDNowCLcB/s320/20160506_170322.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first clips I found surprised me because as much as I thought I'd never forget her voice, it was different than I remembered. In fact, she sounded exactly like me. My 15-year-old 'baby' walked through the room when her voice was on the audio of the footage I was watching. He didn't believe me, that it was my mom. He agreed I sound exactly like her. Which kind of makes up for the fact her voice was not how I had locked it into my memory. Instead, I carry it around with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have scenes where she's holding my two oldest, as newborns. She is cooing over them and fussing over them, exactly as I'd remembered. And there is a lot of audio of her voice,of her stories and comments. We didn't have a clue that she'd be gone soon, so no one made the effort to make sure we were taping her. Our goal was to tape the babies. But in the background, you can hear her. The way she talked and the way she thought is as important to me as the visual.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's burned into my memory that she died at age 50. It seemed so young then, and seems even younger now that I'm almost there myself. I remembered celebrating her 50th birthday, and the way she didnt want that number to make her feel old. But until this week I didn't realize I had actual video footage of that party. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have her saying, to her children and grandchildren gathered around the table, that she is thankful to still be country dancing, and thankful to have healthy kids and grandkids. Even when she's handed the traditional black balloons, the smile shows on her face and in her voice. At one point my baby Michael sits on her lap. It's a shot I assumed we'd treasure in years to come because of how quickly Michael had grown. Not because it was one of the last videos taken of her before she was gone.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wkHXrKiLAyk/Vzu7f5cH3sI/AAAAAAAAB5E/Y6ldb8RZAJ4MH3AmIbjcqKsvd6USkkgRwCLcB/s1600/13230319_10153659588773716_6968537102688535287_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wkHXrKiLAyk/Vzu7f5cH3sI/AAAAAAAAB5E/Y6ldb8RZAJ4MH3AmIbjcqKsvd6USkkgRwCLcB/s320/13230319_10153659588773716_6968537102688535287_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But instead of being overwhelmed with saddness, as I'd feared for so long, I was once again overcome with thankfulness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She was a huge influence in my life. She made her mark on so many lives. There is no doubt I miss her, every day. But life has gone on. And my goal now is that these kids she didnt get to see grow up know her a little bit better. The still pictures were not enough. Now I have video and audio to share with them. They know about this woman who made me who I am, as a mom to them. These home movies help save her memory, as only home movies can. </span><br />
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-28869675633631487172016-02-06T13:17:00.002-05:002016-02-06T13:17:30.153-05:00A Letter to Payton Manning from a Local Seahawks Fan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FFLqpjYH9cM/VrY3pINCTbI/AAAAAAAAB28/AxRYeqsOKEk/s1600/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FFLqpjYH9cM/VrY3pINCTbI/AAAAAAAAB28/AxRYeqsOKEk/s320/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Almost 20 years ago I stumbled upon a book in my local library about a football player and his football dynasty family. I was raising a house full of young children at the time and found myself stealing away to read just one more chapter about this football player who stood for everything I believed in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I already loved football. I'd followed a team called the Seahawks since I was a teenager. My mom had been a Cowboys fan who lived in Missouri so I figured you got to choose the team you'd love for a lifetime. The Seahawks were new and had cool uniforms so I picked them to be my lifetime team. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It didn't matter that I'd never even been to the Pacific Northwest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I followed them, decade after decade, and stayed loyal in spite of their usual losing record, because that's what it means to be a fan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then along came this library book about a football player who played for the Colts. I loved everything about his story. From the day I returned that book to the library, the Colts were always my second favorite team. Because of you, Mr. Manning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our kids continued to grow. We moved around the country with my husband's job. The Seahawks were always my first team but I always sought out the Colts game so I could watch you play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For a handful of years we lived in Upstate NY, right down the road from the Giants training camp. It was fun to go watch camp every year, and cheer for your little brother. I became a brief Giants fan, mainly because there was a Manning on the roster. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then we found out we were moving to Colorado. The land of the Broncos. The team I spent a lifetime disliking, because they were always the ones who managed to beat my Hawks on a regular basis. It would be the first move where I truly couldn't support the home team. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we were packing up the New York house, the news broke. You were moving to Colorado too. It was enough to tear at my loyalties. I ended up believing the Broncos signed you on solely for me, so that I could somewhat tolerate living in the land of that Orange team. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A few years later we had <i>that</i> Super Bowl. It was a roller coaster season for me. As your Broncos advanced, so did my Hawks. My 12th man spirit rose up and took over. I wore my Blue and Green jersey (and Seahawks prosthetic leg) with pride, because I finally had a team that people feared. After 30 years of barely breaking even, we were finally, finally great. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And in a twist of fate, we were up against that Orange team that all my neighbors cheered for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It turned out in my favor, but made my life more difficult. I became the enemy to the Orange neighbors around me. I rejoiced with abandon, but in the privacy of my own home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It's taken a few years to shake that feeling of needing to hide my loyalties. I am soon going to be brave enough to get a Seahawks bumper sticker for my Jeep and no longer worry about it risking vandalism as it sits in public parking lots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And now another Super Bowl is ahead. You're going back, but my team narrowly missed the chance. I have to choose which team I'll root for. Carolina is a great team. Many say they remind folks of my team. I shouldn't be able to root for the Broncos. They are my lifetime nemisis. But then there's the complicated issue of my love and loyalty to you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No one knows if this will be your last year. I'm leaning toward wanting you to retire, if only to spend more time with those adorable little people who run around your house. It would be a magical ending to your football career, to go out on a Super Bowl. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You really need to win this game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But to root for you would mean to root for that team that wears Orange. It's a tough decision for me. Put aside my pettiness and root for a guy I've followed for two decades, or stay true to my loyalties and root for the team that plays like my Seahawks?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I'm happy to report that I'm leaning your way, Payton. It is sure to be a tough game, but I have no doubt you can pull it off. You can take home that trophy and leave behind the days on the field with peace. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I know you are swamped with preparations, from traveling west to studying plays from past Carolina games. But I wanted you to know you have a unique fan out there. One who wears her Seahawks jersey on a regular basis, but is putting aside her lifetime of prejudice against that Orange team to be able to root for you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At the end of the day the color of your uniform no longer matters to me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All I want is for the upstanding guy I've watched all these years, the guy I could fully encourage my kids to emulate, to get his ultimate reward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I'll be watching from our living room in Evergreen on February 7th. And when you hold that trophy high there just might be tears running down my face. Seahawk loving tears. From one football-loving mama who can't help but stand behind one of the greatest guys who has ever played the game. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Even if he does wear Orange. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With 12th Man Love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Judy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-20181893433127286432015-11-17T15:33:00.001-05:002015-11-17T15:33:21.787-05:00The Heat of the Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7alI5rPXskU/VkuIVmuJj8I/AAAAAAAAB2Q/4O_hAepSulg/s1600/12019971_10153183068853716_3216057816076741954_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7alI5rPXskU/VkuIVmuJj8I/AAAAAAAAB2Q/4O_hAepSulg/s320/12019971_10153183068853716_3216057816076741954_n.jpg" width="235" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I heard a car door slam so I opened the back door and looked outside. My six and a half foot tall son was digging his firefighter gear out of the back of his friend's truck. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">His friend, Harrison, is also in the local Fire Academy. For three months they have been donning the heavy, smoky gear and learning how to put out fires, rescue 'dummies', and respond to emergency calls. They are both soaking up the training, so excited to be headed into a career they love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Harrison's dad is a volunteer firefighter in our community. The kind who puts in more volunteer hours than many people put into their paying jobs. He's a guy who will do anything for his community. His character has been passed down to his son. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">I got to know Harrison through my job at the Rec Center. Harrison's shift as the climbing instructor for the indoor rock wall overlapped with mine at the front desk. I enjoyed shooting the breeze with him on slow afternoons because he was a kid who belongs to that demographic I love - end of high school/early college. He's hungrily looking all around, seeing what options are out there for his future, and deciding which paths he should take. On top of that he's funny and entertaining and made my day at work much more enjoyable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">It was exciting to hear that Harrison was accepted into the Fire Academy in the same class as my Isaac. The roster is made up of a lot of older guys, married, with families, and having a guy who could relate to him made Isaac's first days of training a bit less stressful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">My son has wanted to be a firefighter for a long time. He has passionately dreamed of it in recent years. Immediately after finishing high school early he headed down to the fire program at our local community college, taking their fire classes. But he was desperate to get his feet wet, to study the real stuff that makes a firefighter. He wanted to run into those smoky practice buildings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">He applied for our Fire Academy last year, when he was barely 18. It's an intense year-long program that we are so lucky to have in our community. Its purpose is to train people who want to join our huge squad of local volunteer firefighters. It's also a great program for young men who want to pursue firefighting as a career. It's not easy to get a spot on the team.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Rightfully so, the selection committee took into account the number of young guys who apply for the much-coveted spots, thinking it will be a glamorous life, then drop out when the going gets smoky. They turned Isaac down and told him to come back next year if he was truly interested. They told him to get more training on his own first, to prove to them he was serious.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dgEfv0WwgEs/VkuM6YnSmmI/AAAAAAAAB2g/NNZuJzeFUUk/s1600/20150119_161922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dgEfv0WwgEs/VkuM6YnSmmI/AAAAAAAAB2g/NNZuJzeFUUk/s320/20150119_161922.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">That fall Isaac was in the deep woods of the mountains near our house, learning how to fight wildland fires. He soaked up every bit of training he could as they set small fires in the trees, then turned around and learned how to safely put them out. He took a few more college classes, to add to his resume. Then he applied to Fire Academy again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">He practiced for his interview for weeks, studying everything online he could find related to the questions they might ask. He walked into that room, all six and a half feet of him, and trembled with nerves. And when he walked out, he was accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">From the very first day, Isaac and Harrison have been strongly holding their own. They never complained when it was time to put on the heavy gear and haul equipment around the practice areas. They have classroom training on Mondays and real world exercises on the weekends. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pRz1BNtzVHM/VkuMk9wMAXI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/aphfuVKnBnU/s1600/12003324_10153180689018716_419474134444779811_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pRz1BNtzVHM/VkuMk9wMAXI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/aphfuVKnBnU/s320/12003324_10153180689018716_419474134444779811_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">On September 11th of this year they put on their full gear, masks and tanks included, and walked up as many flights of stairs as the first responders did in the twin towers. Then they walked a few more flights, out of deep-seated respect. They each had a laminated picture of a fellow firefighter from 9/11 attached to their coats. Isaac and Harrison were honored and inspired to be there. To be 'one of the guys/girls'. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">For the past month, Isaac has repeatedly told me about a specific date in November. It's the day they officially qualified to respond to local fire calls. He's carried the dispatch radio around for a month, getting used to it interrupting the rhythm of his day. And then that day came. Yesterday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">They had a full day of live fire training. The practice house was lit on fire, pretend people scattered throughout. All day long they pushed their bodies to the limit and practiced rescuing dummies, and attacking different types of fires. By late afternoon, Harrison and Isaac were exhausted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">But they knew it was 'the day'. They knew they had finally reached the day they got to practice responding to that buzzing walkie-talkie that had become a part of their bodies. They discussed with their commanders what types of calls they could go to, and what kinds they still had to wait out. As they climbed into Harrison's truck and got ready to head home, the walkie toned out. It was an emergency call. And it was less than a mile away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Harrison and Isaac looked at each other, both stunned that they might have their first call this quickly. The adrenaline kicked in. With huge grins on their faces, both of them knowing exactly what the other was feeling, they rushed to get their gear together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">In less than 5 minutes, they were at the scene, crawling off the fire truck in full gear, just like they'd been trained. The situation had been resolved by the time they arrived. It was a small car fire that was quickly extinguished by other responders. But it was their first call. And they suddenly felt authentic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">As I walked out my back door an hour later I saw two huge grins. I only had time to ask how academy had gone that day before I was interrupted by two young men spilling out the story of their afternoon. "We responded to our first call!" They tripped over each other's sentences. The stories spilled out. The excitement could almost be physically felt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">All that training, dreaming, choking on smoke, and pushing through pain had finally paid off. They had finally become real.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">As it turns out, Harrison and Isaac now hold the record for the shortest time a 'probie' has had to wait, after being cleared to respond to calls, to reporting on a call. The last record had been more than a day. For Isaac and Harrison, it was a handful of minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">True to tradition, they both headed back to the firehouse after the call, so they could give the recently used fire truck a bath. When she breaks you in on your first fire call, you owe her a good scrub down. Being the excited, yet really just giddy young boys that they are, they talked to 'her' as they hosed her off. Telling her how thankful they were that she is so reliable. And how much they were going to enjoy seeing her on calls in the future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">For the second time that day they left the firehouse. This time, they no longer left the parking lot as newbies. They had been broken in. They had joined the ranks of the thousands of hard working men and women before them. Those smiles could not be erased.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">And I was the lucky recipient when they arrived in my driveway a few minutes later. It was one of those moments, as a parent, that you wish you could freeze. But even a video or photograph taken could not save this scene. It was a feeling as much as a snapshot in time. I couldn't risk losing the energy by pulling out my camera. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">It just had to be lived, absorbed, then finally shared with you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-23763890030476974352015-05-15T16:53:00.000-04:002015-05-15T16:53:04.544-04:00Saving A Life On A Friday
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E6m9k0vBjOk/VVZa9cCC68I/AAAAAAAAB0M/OsWqpvtwUzo/s1600/cpr-anim-gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E6m9k0vBjOk/VVZa9cCC68I/AAAAAAAAB0M/OsWqpvtwUzo/s1600/cpr-anim-gif.gif" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As soon as I
pulled up to the building last Friday I knew there was a problem. Emergency
vehicles surrounded the Rec Center where I work. It was a trick to find a parking space that
didn’t block one of the trucks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We have
sheriff’s cars out front every now and then. Teenagers acting up. Someone
trying to sneak in a back door. A random stolen bicycle. But we never have
multiple ambulances, fire trucks and sheriff cars. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was an
energy in the building as I walked through the front door. Where usually I am
greeted only by the front desk person I am there to replace, that day many of
my managers were lingering about, mixed in with deputies and paramedics. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not wanting
to be problem, but knowing I’d need to know the situation if I were taking over
the front desk, I finally got some information out of one of my bosses. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On Fridays
we have many older people fill up our basketball gym, playing pickleball. It’s
a popular sport here in Colorado and they rarely have low attendance. One of
the players left his game and went to the sidelines, holding his chest. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Several
friends came over and asked if he were okay. He assured them that he was. Said this
happens every now and then. He even declined a chair to sit down in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then a
friend who is a retired nurse walked over, took his hand, looked in his face,
and yelled out, “Someone call 911!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She saw what
many of us would not see – the distinct signs of a heart that is failing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The deputy
who works at the high school next door to our building happened to be driving
by when the call came in. Before our front desk guy had finished his call to
911, she was running through the front door.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When she got
up to the basketball gym, the man had just collapsed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every person
who works for our large Parks and Rec Department is required to take First
Aid/CPR classes, every six months. From the director down to the part time
janitors. Every single person. And this is why.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first
person to reach the fallen man was our head maintenance guy. Right behind him
was a lifeguard, who heard the call from the pool. Together they started CPR.
For what seemed like hours, but in reality was only a few minutes, they pumped
away, keeping the blood flowing, until paramedics finally arrived. There was
some delay as they figured out a way to get the ambulance to the back of the
building, to avoid a large stair case inside. Maintenance Guy and Lifeguard
kept pumping away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the
professionals took over. The other pickleball players surrounded them, making a
stunned circle of witnesses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sometimes
grumble under my breath about yet another CPR class. It always feels like we
just had them, and suddenly it’s time again. Kneeling on the floor is always
uncomfortable and pretending to wrap someone’s head in gauze is only fun when
you’re a four year old playing doctor. Then I hear the stats - that a large
percentage of people who receive CPR don’t make it anyway. It’s easy to feel
like ‘why bother?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was cured
of that attitude last Friday. Later in the evening we got an update. The man
had a fully blocked artery. He was receiving treatment and would go home in the
morning. Go home. Back to his life with his family. Able to celebrate Mother’s
Day with his wife on Sunday. Because a couple of people knew how to pump that
oxygenated blood to his heart, when his heart was not able. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As you’d
expect, the staff was pretty shaken up the rest of the afternoon. The young
lifeguard was found wandering the hallway, after she handed her job over to the
paramedics. One of my supervisors asked her where she was going. “Back to the
pool. My shift isn’t over.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She was a
bit dazed, not sure what to do next. After you’ve basically saved another human’s
life, it’s hard to transition back to regular life. The supervisor gave her
immediate permission to go home, for a paid afternoon off. She definitely earned
it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a
meeting with all of the people who had been present, who had helped, who might
need some emotional support. Our maintenance guy was as dazed as the lifeguard
had been. When I was able to call him that evening, to tell him the incredible
outcome, he just kept saying, “Thank you. Thank you for calling. That’s
amazing. Thank you for calling.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a
humbling afternoon. I’ve spoken to many of the pickleball players who witnessed
the incident. Most of them said, “It was scary. We all knew it could <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have been us.” One of those things that makes
you consider mortality, and good health, and surrounding yourself with the
people you love. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That notice
will come around again soon. Times and dates for the next staff CPR classes
will be emailed out to each department. I’ll have to double check my family
calendar and find a time that fits on one of my days off. But this time around
I won’t grumble <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This time
around I know that if I’m told that <a href="http://apps.health.qld.gov.au/acp/Public_Section/Resuscitation_Planning/resuscitationPlanning2.aspx" target="_blank">90% of the people</a> who receive CPR die
anyway, I won’t think, ‘why bother?’ I’ll think of that man - that husband, dad,
grandpa, and brother, who is alive today because someone knew CPR. He was
spared brain damage, paralysis and death. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The ten percent is why we take the
class. I’ll never forget that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-15208850628325782032015-05-12T02:21:00.000-04:002015-05-12T21:29:21.804-04:00Creating A New Fan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cVPXeyRJcBA/VVGY8X4nCeI/AAAAAAAABzs/l3Nibyxdi4w/s1600/DSC07180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cVPXeyRJcBA/VVGY8X4nCeI/AAAAAAAABzs/l3Nibyxdi4w/s320/DSC07180.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I found
David Sedaris almost a dozen years ago, when I worked in a library in New York.
After reading the first book I knew I had to go find every other thing he'd
ever written. I've been a fan for a very long time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So when the
opportunity came my way to see him perform in person of course I jumped on it.
It was the autumn of 2013 and I took my 22 year old daughter because she would
often read his books too, when I'd check them out from the library. Being a
core writer for GeekMom.com, <a href="http://geekmom.com/2013/04/david-sedaris-book/" target="_blank">I wrote a post</a> about my love of Mr. Sedaris's
work, and in return was comped some pretty sweet tickets, just a few rows back
from the stage. It was like having him in my own living room. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The best
part of the night, however, was about an hour before the show. The promoter
kindly let daughter and me meet up with Mr. Sedaris, for a mini meet and greet.
I asked him to sign my artificial leg, the one I have been collecting
signatures on for several years now. He also signed the book I brought from
home. We had a quick, fun chat, then the interaction was over. We left with some pretty great memories to store in our memory banks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This year I
noticed he was headed back to Denver. I emailed my kindly rep and she confirmed
that he'd be stopping in the Mile High City on his massive book tour. I <a href="http://geekmom.com/2015/03/david-sedaris-live-events/" target="_blank">wroteanother post</a> for GeekMom, this time about how much I appreciate the way he so
casually references prosthetics in his essays, making my life feel a bit more
normal. Once again I found tickets with my name on them, waiting at Will Call.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time
around daughter no longer lives locally. Hubby and middle son are spending the
week in Utah. Oldest son is also residing in another state. It was down to
youngest son. Fourteen year old Sam. Who had never read a single thing written
by Mr. Sedaris, except for the essay I read to him every December, about
holiday traditions in other countries, called "Six to Eight Large Black
Men". It is our version of The Night Before Christmas, just a bit rougher
around the edges. And much more likely to induce a few good belly laughs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In trying to
sell the idea to Sam I said I had great tickets to a cool author's night in
Denver. In a really cool old theater. Down on 16th Street Mall, where there
were lots of fun stores we could poke around in beforehand. In fact, we might
even splurge and get dinner somewhere downtown. I figured food speaks to the
most reluctant teen boy. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"So
what's it going to be like?" he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Well,
David Sedaris writes funny essays, about his life," I replied. "He
will read some from his books and then answer questions from the audience at
the end. And it's funny. I promise."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">"So,
he's like a </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">stand-up</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> comedian?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Well....kinda. Something like that..."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">We left the
house at </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">5 pm</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">, allowing plenty of time to run some errands, then find parking in downtown Denver before the show. We picked up our Will Call tickets about 6:40
then stood on the sidewalk out front, trying to decide if we should walk around
the outdoor mall area for a bit, until it was closer to the 7:30 show time, or
just go ahead and find our seats. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Surprisingly,
Sam wanted to go ahead and go in. What a
lucky decision that turned out to be. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As we walked
into the lobby I noticed a woman who seemed to be my rep, my favorite rep, who
continues to get me these sweet tickets to amazing shows. I waited for her to
turn around to make sure it was her, and started to walk her way, intending to
thank her for this latest set. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She turned around.
The man with her turned around too. It was David Sedaris himself. It took me a
second to realize it was him. I just wasn't expecting to casually run into him
in the lobby. After our eyes met, his gaze quickly looked down and saw my leg.
He looked back up and said, "Hey! I know you!" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was one
of those hard to comprehend moments. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Yes,"
I said (I think....it was all kind of a blur). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"You
signed my leg last year." I then whipped out the small manila envelope I
had in my hand and pulled out the picture I'd had printed earlier that day.
It's a picture of my signed leg, next to the signature page on my book where
he'd also signed. My plan was that 'just in case' I had the opportunity to get
a signature, I'd get the picture signed, then frame that picture to hang in my
home office. It's much easier than displaying the actual leg. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I couldn't
have imagined we'd accidentally run into him in the lobby.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He
graciously signed my picture and as he looked over at Sam, he stuck his hand
out. "Hi! What's your name?" he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sam
hesitated, in the way you do when you're so flustered you can't even remember
basic facts about yourself. "Sam", he finally said. When asked how
old he was, Sam managed to do the math correctly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">David then
said, as he laughed, "Oh Sam! You need to do that again! You need a
stronger hand shake than that!" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">They shook
hands again, playfully, but much more seriously this time on Sam's side. David
chatted with Sam for a minute, telling him to be sure to check in with him
after the show, come to the front of the line, because he had a special gift
for him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I had just
been telling Sam, on the drive to Denver, how Mr. Sedaris is known for bringing
small gifts to give the teens who are dragged along to his shows. I truly
believe he's seriously under-estimating how much those teens love his shows,
especially the dirty jokes part. But the kindness is appreciated. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sam promised
Mr. Sedaris he would come see him after the show, at the signing table. And
then my kid who had informed me in a very strict voice on the drive down,
that there was NO way we were waiting
for any signatures or any schmoozing after the show, was dedicated to meeting
up with his friend David as soon as the show was over. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No matter how long he
had to wade through the crowds who were exiting the theater. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since we
were a bit early, and still floating a bit from our accidental encounter, Sam
and I had nearly an hour of great chat time. We talked about a wide variety of
topics, while we lounged in our seats, watching people slowly file in. It was
one of those magical hours that you treasure when you're a mom to teens,
especially teen boys. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The tickets
were not as close to the front as the last set, but they were perfect. My seat
was on the aisle, where I could stick my left leg out into the walkway. It's
the seat I pick when I get my first choice at every event, so I can stretch out
my artificial leg, when it's feeling a bit cramped during the course of the
show. And since Sam had met with Mr. Sedaris before the show, seeing him
clearly during the reading wasn't nearly as important. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a lot
of laughing and a lot of great essays, the show was over and the crowd worked
their way to the exit. Sam helped me up the sloped aisle, which is a tricky
thing for me to navigate, especially when I'm forced to 'shuffle' with the
crowd. I'm not great at shuffling, or slopes, so together they are my nemesis. It
was nice to be able to hold onto my baby boy's arm for stability, and as he
helped me physically up the aisle, he helped me mentally once again try to
grasp that this five foot ten inch kid is my baby, all grown up. Another
treasured mother/son moment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Just as
promised, when Sam approached the table, Mr. Sedaris noticed him and stopped
his book signing rhythm. He paused the next person in line and turned his full
attention to my boy, who was beaming. "Oh good! You're here!" he
said, as he reached under the table for his personal bag. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">"Sam,
do you ever dress up?" I thought it was a reference to the fact Sam had
worn his favorite </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">t shirt</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> and hoodie to the show. But instead it was the
deciding question for which gift he gave Sam. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the end
Sam ended up with a small business like card that has tiny lettering on it. All
it says is "Stop Talking". He and Sam laughed about all the
situations Sam could use it in, and Mr. Sedaris acted like he had all the time
in the world to give my boy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As we exited
the theater I didn't want it to end. The perfect night out with my boy.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Another
amazing meet up with one of my favorite authors. A beautiful cool night in
downtown Denver, after days and days of rain and snow. I walked as slowly as I
could down the sidewalk towards our parked car. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Sam fell
asleep on the drive home. We chatted a little, but being a teenage boy, he
wasn't prepared to analyze every single thing he did and </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> like about the show. The one thought he kept coming back to was, "I wonder what prize he
would have given me if I said I <i>DO</i> dress up sometimes..." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It's a question
that will plague him for a very long time. Or at least until he has a chance to run into his friend David again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-50531198545746874562015-02-19T21:29:00.000-05:002015-02-19T21:32:38.225-05:00Graham Crackers<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W8j-K6u51wE/VOabt2DcYlI/AAAAAAAABxw/jOGVFDF0tPY/s1600/untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W8j-K6u51wE/VOabt2DcYlI/AAAAAAAABxw/jOGVFDF0tPY/s1600/untitled.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The big plastic
bag of graham crackers sat in the bottom of my pantry for over two months. Like
every other year, I bought way too many when I’d done the comprehensive shopping
trip for the annual gingerbread house party. It’s okay to run out of candy
canes when building gingerbread houses. To run out of household siding is not
forgivable. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After all
the colorful scraps of candy and sticky smudges of white frosting had been
cleaned up I was left with a lot of crackers - eight packages still sealed, the
rest gathered into Ziploc bags. They were banished to the bottom of the pantry
until I could figure out what to do with them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By mid
February I was ready to have them gone, so I could have the floor space for
cases of juice boxes and stock piled kitchen supplies. I work at a Rec Center
with an active kid’s program. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided
to haul the plastic bag of crackers into work, to see if I could pawn them off
on the director of our children’s’ programs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I got to
work and immediately forgot about the donation crackers that filled out the
bottom of my work bag. By the time I remembered them, the director had gone
home. I considered just leaving them in the break room, with a note for the
director to find the next day. Then I remembered something.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every
Thursday night at our Rec Center, the lobby is filled with kids getting out of
swim practice. They huddle in packs around the front doors, the girls with
their wet hair swept up into loose buns and the boys with their damp towels
draped around their necks, as they wait for parents to come retrieve them. They
are always hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When they
are not scavenging from the vending machines, they are digging into the bottom
of backpacks, looking for any morsel to calm the ravaging hunger that was
stirred up by too many laps in the pool. Most have not had dinner yet, even as
the clock says it’s past seven. I wondered if these foragers might be
interested in my old graham crackers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I dug an old
paper plate covered in a Christmas scene out of the back of our break room
cabinet. I ripped open a few packages of crackers and stacked them high on the
plate. The plate went onto the center of my front counter. Within minutes there
were teenagers sniffing around.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Are these
free?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once I said
the magic ‘yes’, you would have thought I’d opened up a large box of hot pizza.
The crowd moved as a unit, from the couches and front lobby tables, to come hover
over the front desk and a single plate of stale crackers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It shouldn’t
have surprised me. I instantly thought about the days when my kids were in
elementary school and we’d ski on the weekends, back when we lived in Utah. I
knew that a long day of skiing did things to kids’ bodies that were much like
the effects of a long day of swimming. A special deep kind of hunger set in and
on the drive home my kids would eat just about anything. In those years I
used to save every last stray cracker, every heel from the loaf of bread, every
snack in the cabinet that was rejected on a regular day of after-school hunger.
I collected them all in one big Ziploc, which was brought out on the drive home
from skiing. And it never failed that the kids would practically fight over who
got that last heel of bread or last scrape of peanut butter out of the jar.
That hunger made everything taste good.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was
witnessing that same hunger in the water logged swimmers in my Rec Center
lobby. The first plate of crackers was gone in two minutes. I dug into my bag
and opened two more. Then two more. As round one of swimmers headed out the
front door to waiting parents, dribbling crumbs in their path, the next round
headed out of the locker rooms. “Are these for anyone?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The most
surprising reaction came from the parents who walked by the desk. As they saw
the kids taking crackers, they gave me the questioning look, I shook my head,
and they quickly grabbed one for themselves. More than one looked over their
shoulder and said, “You forget how good a basic graham cracker is!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Graham
crackers. That box on the snack shelf of the pantry that is rejected over and
over, as more exciting options like Ritz Bitz and Chips Ahoy get all the glory.
Unless someone takes the time to spread some chocolate frosting in the middle,
no one thinks about a graham cracker being the perfect snack. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But at the
end of a long day, a day of school and swimming, or office jobs and work
meetings, in the pocket of time before the real food makes its way to the
dinner table, sometimes what you need is something simple. Something basic and
plain. Something as delectable as a single graham cracker. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-34132374800034522402015-02-10T18:13:00.000-05:002015-02-10T18:13:00.405-05:00Louie Vito - Nicest Guy at X Games.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hVkJvturLCc/VNqGhsgfRxI/AAAAAAAABvw/nzuiF46OL3s/s1600/20150122_194749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hVkJvturLCc/VNqGhsgfRxI/AAAAAAAABvw/nzuiF46OL3s/s1600/20150122_194749.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">If you've
followed my writing on GeekMom.com, you already know that I'm a huge fan of the
Winter X Games. With four kids, three of them risk seeking males, we have
religiously watched the X Games for most of their childhood. We never dreamed
we'd ever live close enough to go in person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Immediately
after we moved to Colorado, we looked up the dates and made plans to attend. I
was able to go with a media pass, because of my connection with GeekMom, and it
was an incredible four day weekend, full of great new memories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">We've now
attended three years in a row, and I hope to be a regular for many years to
come. There are many reasons why I love the X Games (which I've <a href="http://archive.wired.com/geekmom/2013/02/x-games-geek/" target="_blank">w</a>ritten about many times for GeekMom.com) and one of the big ones is the accessibility of the athletes. The path
from the end of the Super Pipe, back to the snowmobile that takes athletes up
the mountain, weaves through the crowd of excited fans. There is a lot of high
fiving, a lot of selfies snapped. This even happens during the competition.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3VY2bsKt6KM/VNqMh2srsmI/AAAAAAAABwA/m_RCRnjGjmk/s1600/1656379_10151931086128716_125437679_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3VY2bsKt6KM/VNqMh2srsmI/AAAAAAAABwA/m_RCRnjGjmk/s1600/1656379_10151931086128716_125437679_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">On the drive
home this year I was formulating all the articles I'd be writing about X Games
this year. And the one I was most excited about was this one: Why Louie Vito
May Be The Nicest Guy at X Games.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Louie Vito
is a rock star in the snowboarding world. He has earned just under 45 medals in
major events, from as far back as 2006. The things he can do in that Super Pipe
are no less than amazing. Like many of the professional athletes, Louie looks
forward to X Games because of its relaxed mood. He competes just as hard, but
he also spends a lot of energy hanging out with the crowds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I first
noticed it in 2013. Most of the athletes are willing to high five, or bump
knuckles with the fans who line the fences, but Louie took it a step further.
Anyone who asked (or hollered at him) was given the picture, signature, or even
hug that they wanted. Watching the guy, you'd never know he was in the middle
of a world class competition, just waiting for his next run. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Last year I
had my son Sam with me. In the midst of Louie's schmoozing, I asked for a
picture. Of course he obliged. We came home with this gem.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e2SB3rqLupU/VNqMn-0wV6I/AAAAAAAABwI/KdcgZb6TyKU/s1600/1545946_10151931086823716_1915313637_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e2SB3rqLupU/VNqMn-0wV6I/AAAAAAAABwI/KdcgZb6TyKU/s1600/1545946_10151931086823716_1915313637_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">And again
this year, Louie was in full hospitality mode. He chatted with fans, he took
selfies, and he signed his name over and over. When an older gentleman handed
him a cell phone, and asked him to talk to his wife, Louie didn't bat an eye.
He chatted with her for a few minutes, and ended up asking her why she hadn't
come to Aspen. All in good fun.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VJRDJz4dnT8/VNqNjKmtBRI/AAAAAAAABwg/MQXALIhQiCw/s1600/20150122_200823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VJRDJz4dnT8/VNqNjKmtBRI/AAAAAAAABwg/MQXALIhQiCw/s1600/20150122_200823.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">This year I
got a series of pictures, of Louie doing what he does best. I had a chance to
talk to him for a few minutes and told him I was going to write this article.
He wasn't looking for the press. His answer was, "This is why we're here.
If you don't love this part, there's no reason to be here." This is a guy
who appreciates his fans and recognizes how they play into his career.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xbj2qU-GNG0/VNqMvwovChI/AAAAAAAABwQ/mCAbKWslRFY/s1600/1551461_10151931086763716_1517751764_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xbj2qU-GNG0/VNqMvwovChI/AAAAAAAABwQ/mCAbKWslRFY/s1600/1551461_10151931086763716_1517751764_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">And finally
I snapped a picture with Louie and me, </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">and then Louie and my daughter. He
flashed that genuine, huge Louie smile, then turned around and got back to 'his
crowd.'</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1MUKN_rtyOw/VNqNp0QvKUI/AAAAAAAABwo/PJfIhxpPkHY/s1600/20150122_194757.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1MUKN_rtyOw/VNqNp0QvKUI/AAAAAAAABwo/PJfIhxpPkHY/s1600/20150122_194757.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">If I had the
authority to hand out medals at the end of X Games, the first one I'd present
would be a shiny gold one. It would be just one of many in Louie's collection,
but I think it would be one of his most important ones. Engraved on it would be
the words "Louie Vito - Nicest Guy At X Games".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">See ya next
year Louie. And hopefully many, many years after that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Side Note: I'm keeping my eye on a young man named Scottie James, a boarder from </span><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Australia. He's talented, he's young, and he's good with the crowds. Watch out Louie, you might have a stiff competition for the Nicest Guy medal next year. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mMViMo0KxO8/VNqNNJQgYLI/AAAAAAAABwY/WRwHArE-zSc/s1600/DSC01985-600x416.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mMViMo0KxO8/VNqNNJQgYLI/AAAAAAAABwY/WRwHArE-zSc/s1600/DSC01985-600x416.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Here are a few more gems, of Louie, doing his thing, working the crowd, and even taking a picture of one of the other athletes with fans, graciously playing photographer. And in the end, signing my artificial leg for me. Nothing surprises this guy.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xbj2qU-GNG0/VNqMvwovChI/AAAAAAAABwQ/mCAbKWslRFY/s1600/1551461_10151931086763716_1517751764_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xbj2qU-GNG0/VNqMvwovChI/AAAAAAAABwQ/mCAbKWslRFY/s1600/1551461_10151931086763716_1517751764_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E_bmUO5XT9o/VNqOH4MfHFI/AAAAAAAABw4/8AsSmyWA6kg/s1600/20150122_194828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E_bmUO5XT9o/VNqOH4MfHFI/AAAAAAAABw4/8AsSmyWA6kg/s1600/20150122_194828.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-23676000171159241662015-01-27T22:01:00.000-05:002015-01-27T23:22:30.949-05:00Patriots Husband + Seahawks Wife = Can This Marriage Be Saved?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OxKBXzPLMSc/VMhPS9p2E5I/AAAAAAAABvE/RDdSfB83ZZg/s1600/10345745_10152311168668716_6172854516505744411_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OxKBXzPLMSc/VMhPS9p2E5I/AAAAAAAABvE/RDdSfB83ZZg/s1600/10345745_10152311168668716_6172854516505744411_n.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I knew it
when I married him. He'd grown up in NH, so naturally he had a lifetime
membership in the Patriots Fan Club. I've always been a Seahawks fan. I've
never lived in Seattle, which makes it more interesting. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I picked them to be
'my team' when I was a teen, growing up in Missouri. I liked their uniforms.
Through the years I fell in love with their heart. I loved being a 12 who was
representing my team in the no mans land that is every state outside of Washington. I'm pretty thrilled that after all these years, they still have the coolest uniforms in the NFL. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hubby and I made our opposite team loyalties work. We enjoyed our football Sundays. He did his best to catch
his Patriots, and I was giddy when my local television station would play a
random Seahawks game. We lived all over the United States, in the 25 years that
we've been married, and in no state was my team a priority. For our years in
New England, his team seemed to belong
to every state on the east coast. I was jealous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We never had issues concerning our opposing teams because the Seahawks rarely, if
ever, played the Patriots. His team would have their runs of successes. Many playoff
games and Super Bowls. While my team struggled to figure out who we were. I
cheered for them anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In our
frequent moves, we happened to move to the mountains of Colorado in 2011. We
were geographically closer to my team than we had been back in New York, but I
knew there was still no chance my games would ever qualify for 'regional
interest'. It was all about the Broncos, all the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-avgMgjYxnqE/VMhQ0LsqFQI/AAAAAAAABvQ/1WHw1duXXCk/s1600/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-avgMgjYxnqE/VMhQ0LsqFQI/AAAAAAAABvQ/1WHw1duXXCk/s1600/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Two years
later I got a new prosthetic leg - a Seahawks leg. Yes, I'm such a crazy 12
that I chose to have our logo plastered all over my artificial limb. I wanted
to take every step with my team. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You know
what happens next. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After thirty years of rooting for my Seahawks, it was
finally our turn. But the team we were facing was the one I had just landed in.
I lived in the beehive of fandom that is the Broncos. My Seahawks leg was not
welcome here. My go to line was, "Hey, I've been a Seahawks fan for over
30 years. No one cared until this year!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After the thrashing
that was last year's Super Bowl, I tried to lay low for a bit, out of respect for
my heartbroken neighbors. I cheered on my own, in the privacy of my own home,
and clung to fan groups online. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then came
another record breaking season. And, after much angst (and maybe just a few
voodoo trances flung toward the television) the Broncos fell out of the
running. Surrounded by my crestfallen neighbors in Orange, I literally breathed
a sigh of relief that Sunday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then came
the final games. I knew in my head, by studying the tables, that it was a
possibility, but until it got as close as a single game, I couldn't let myself
go there. There was no way hubby's lifetime team would face my lifetime team in
a Super Bowl. It just couldn't be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now here we
are. We celebrated that quarter century anniversary just three months ago.
We've had our ups and downs through the years, and we've made it this far with
plenty of days that still put smiles on our faces. But this game is coming up.
This game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our son,
seeing what the match up would be, his mom's team against his dad's, and
knowing we'd just had a milestone anniversary, texted us from his home in Kentucky.
"Well, at least you had a good run."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The hubby is
wisely traveling out of state this week for work. He's left me to obsess on the
fan pages, wear my blue and green gear (and leg!) every day, and just generally
be obnoxious as I celebrate my team. A team that is thrilled beyond words to be
playing in back to back Super Bowls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before we
know it, Sunday will be here. All the years of following our two teams,
supporting each other when teams would struggle, and rejoicing together when
teams did well, this day will come. After the wonderful naive years of being
able to claim our spouse's team as our own, we are on the opposite sides of the
field now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hubby will
be back in town Friday. On Saturday we'll go get our Super Bowl food supplies,
walking past the Broncos merchandise on clearance. Most likely we won't even
mention the game. There will be too much anticipation in the air, leaving no space
for words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We'll get
out of bed Sunday. I'll click on this Hawks covered leg and don my favorite
Hawks shirt. He'll pretend he's not nervous. The perfect poker face. He'll take
his spot on the couch and I'll take mine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And then we'll see what happens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-78308478197506872162014-10-06T14:23:00.000-04:002014-10-06T14:23:17.411-04:00A Mother's Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yh19s4xpt50/VDLbUefpLhI/AAAAAAAABtg/tXvueJKddxs/s1600/10710525_10202867676548430_5884909157835712580_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yh19s4xpt50/VDLbUefpLhI/AAAAAAAABtg/tXvueJKddxs/s1600/10710525_10202867676548430_5884909157835712580_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As of August
31st of this year my mom has been gone for exactly 20 years. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Almost all of
my adult years have been lived without her. Although I strongly believe she's
watching over me, I still miss her deeply, especially on the day she died and on
her birthday. Last year my heart was comforted in a new way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As usual, I
posted a small message on Facebook on the anniversary of her death. Along with
the usual condolences, I got a new kind of message. It was from a childhood
friend I had lost touch with through the years, and only found again because of
mutual friends on Facebook.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sarah and her sister Emily lived in my neighborhood when I was very
young. We all went to the same elementary school. Then we moved out to the country and my family exploded with foster
children. I began to treasure the times I got to sleep over at Sarah's house.
Her family was almost the polar opposite of mine. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Her mom was
the only divorced parent I'd ever known. The three of them lived in a small
house just a few blocks from our elementary school. It was quiet and calm and
peaceful at her house. My family lived 15 miles out of town, in a house
that was overflowing with my own four siblings as well as a revolving number of
foster siblings. It was never quiet, calm or peaceful at my house.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I didn't
like having sleepovers at my house. It felt like there was too much intrusion
from all the other people who lived in that space. I loved going to Sarah's
house, which was calm and cozy and where her mom strategically stayed in her
bedroom so we felt like we were all on our own. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">What I
didn't know, until just last year, was the as much as I loved hiding out at
Sarah's house, she loved coming to my house. She loved seeing a huge family all
sharing one space. She loved the constant interruptions. She loved watching my
mom coordinate our family circus. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So on the
19th anniversary of my mom's death last year, Sarah sent me a message through
facebook. "I saw your post about your mom. I am very sad for your loss.
She made a significant impact on me. She had a truly amazing spirit. In fact,
he dedication to foster care was inspiring to me. Yesterday, I finally got the
approval to adopt children of my own. My plan is to adopt older siblings from
foster care. I have been thinking about doing this since spending all that time
with your amazing family. The reach of your mom's inspiration is long and
deep."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Her news touched me deeply. And somehow it didn't surprise me to find out that it had all come
together on one of the two days of the year that I celebrate my mom. I chose to
think of it as a way my mom was watching over not just me, but my friend Sarah.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_1zsLhS6fqk/VDLbg-XmIRI/AAAAAAAABto/eViOUB-2NNw/s1600/1509284_10201911641968163_3474872493695442026_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_1zsLhS6fqk/VDLbg-XmIRI/AAAAAAAABto/eViOUB-2NNw/s1600/1509284_10201911641968163_3474872493695442026_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I expressed
my excitement to Sarah, about her brand new family, and told her to consider my
mom an honorary grandmother to her future children. I assured her that as much
as my mom watched over my own kids as they've grown up, I was sure she'd be
watching over Sarah's.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I told
her one more thing. "Watch the date of October 11th". <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My mom's
birthday is October 11th and if I've learned anything about how my mom still
speaks to me, I've learned that she loves to work through her special days. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sarah
received her two little boys last fall. They've been working on becoming a
family for almost a year now. They've turned her life upside down in all the
best ways. She's finally getting to experience all the joys and pains that the
rest of us have already lived through with our preschoolers. And she's given a
stable new life to two little brothers who had not known much of stability
before they crossed her threshold. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Over the
weekend I got a text from Sarah. "When's your mom's birthday?" is all
it said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I knew it. I
knew it would happen, but still it took my breath away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When I
answered 'October 11', Sarah immediately replied. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">'October 10
is final termination of parental rights. We start official adoption October
11th'. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There it is.
She's still out there. Watching over me. Watching over my children. And
watching over a little girl named Sarah who is all grown up now, and is making
life choices because of her amazing influence. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Happy New
Family... Sarah, Timothy and Andrew. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You are surrounded by people who support
you and will love you in your growing up years. And you'll always be watched
over by a very special grandma whose life decisions 40 years ago changed the
course of your lives today. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-35822412857426242632014-04-21T13:38:00.002-04:002014-04-21T13:38:29.026-04:00Goodbye Kitty Kitty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nsgwy_IxxKE/U1VVXk2L3EI/AAAAAAAABp0/WNTWlUaAI2M/s1600/2012-09-18+19.48.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nsgwy_IxxKE/U1VVXk2L3EI/AAAAAAAABp0/WNTWlUaAI2M/s1600/2012-09-18+19.48.11.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My 17 year
old son came into the kitchen yesterday and said, 'So when does Ruffie get a
post?" I was confused. Our family cat, named Ruffie, died a week ago,
after being a part of our family for a dozen years. But I was unsure what my
son was talking about.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"You
wrote a long post about Kylie (our poodle) when she died. And you wrote a post
about Max (our new dog) when he got lost over Thanksgiving. When are you going
to write a post about Ruffin's life?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh. I get
it. And yes, I do need to document that fluffy creature's place in our family
and in our hearts. In the midst of a day I really don't have time to work on my
own blog posts, here I am, writing about Ruffie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A dozen
years ago we were settled into our new house in Utah. We had moved around the
country for my husband's job and finally felt like we might call this new place
home, for a long time. As promised, we set out to finally get a family pet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Or at least
toddler Sam and I set out. It was going to be a surprise for Christmas. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sam and I
went to the local shelter and walked in the door, knowing what we wanted. I
read off the list to the manager -<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not a kitten<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Two to three
years old<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Potty
trained (well!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Good with
lots of kids<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There were
about eight cats that met the requirements. We walked back to look at them. I
looked at the ones on the top row while Sam took in the cages along the bottom,
his eye level. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">They were
all sweet. There was no way to tell which one was supposed to be ours. Our
first family pet. The pet my kids had waited for, and dreamed about, for years.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then one
fluffy kitty on the bottom row stepped up his game. He sat back on his haunches
and batted his paws in the air, like a dog who is begging. He swiped and swiped
at the air in front of Sam. And Sam was hooked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We came back
several more times, and the 'praying' kitty was still there. Finally, we put
the money down and told the manager we'd be back with the rest of the family to
pick him up that weekend, the weekend before Christmas. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Husband
sneaked off to the store to buy a litter box, food, a dish...then hid them
strategically in the garage. The big kids had no idea they were going to be pet
owners soon and Sam did a great job of not mentioning our many trips to visit
the kitties at the shelter. In his mind, it was just like the zoo trips we took
on a regular basis.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That
Saturday morning we got up early and told the kids to get ready and get in the
van. We were going to find a big surprise. Before lunch time we drove the back
roads that led to the shelter, roads that were not familiar to our children, so
the curiosity just grew. When we pulled up to the small, unmarked building, the
only clue they had was Sam, yelling out "Kitty!" as he saw the place
he'd visited many times.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Typ9YgShCg0/U1VVh_2_58I/AAAAAAAABp8/la_obWhCEiQ/s1600/DSC02143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Typ9YgShCg0/U1VVh_2_58I/AAAAAAAABp8/la_obWhCEiQ/s1600/DSC02143.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The kids
piled out of the van and filed into the shelter, not believing they were
finally getting a cat. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The manager
on duty went back to find the kitty, the one I'd already paid for. He wasn't
there. After all those trips and all that narrowing down of kitties, our
perfect kitty was not there. He had been taken, along with a big group of other
cats and dogs, to the pet fair being held at the local WalMart. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We were
horrified. The kids were devastated. The manager was frantic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She quickly
called the people at the pet fair. They said our kitty had not been adopted
yet. It was good news. We rushed back to the van and headed off to Walmart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sure enough
a huge tractor trailer was in the parking lot. It was filled with cages. Only a
few people could go in at a time. Hubby decided to go get our kitty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He came out
with a dirty, smelly cat with matted hair. It seems he'd been put in a cage
that was too small, and not been checked on regularly. The kids didn't mind. He
was a kitty and he was ours.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7KMa92OPr8U/U1VVv0iVSKI/AAAAAAAABqE/TGGxMjGxEDE/s1600/2013-10-05+20.30.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7KMa92OPr8U/U1VVv0iVSKI/AAAAAAAABqE/TGGxMjGxEDE/s1600/2013-10-05+20.30.20.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We talked in
quiet voices on the drive home, not to scare him. Once we got him inside, Hubby
got the job of putting him into a bath. It's not a myth that cats hate water.
Our new kitty fought and fussed, but came out looking clean and a lot more
comfortable. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We named him
Ruffin. Well, we didn't name him, the shelter had. And the kids were too adamant
that he keep his 'real' name. I lobbied for a name that people might understand
better....like fluffy, or powderpuff. They wouldn't have it. His name was
Ruffin, a name we'd have to repeat every time we'd tell it to people. We
finally came to say, "Ruffin...like muffin with an R". <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But, like
most kitties, even after years of calling him Ruffin, he still only answered to
'kitty kitty', said in the right tone of voice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pYUnNcTe7ek/U1VV3VNKdtI/AAAAAAAABqM/Wa0uZfgEz1k/s1600/2013-10-20+16.35.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pYUnNcTe7ek/U1VV3VNKdtI/AAAAAAAABqM/Wa0uZfgEz1k/s1600/2013-10-20+16.35.12.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ruffie fit
in our family nicely. He was potty trained and polite. He snuggled with anyone
who needed it. He got passed around the family and never seemed to be rattled.
This was important in our household of four kids and dozens of friends. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He
religiously cleaned himself and kept his fur fluffy and soft. I never had to
bathe him, even after he'd been outside, chasing grasshoppers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When we
moved from Utah to New York, he made the long drive with ease. He loved our New
York house even more than our Utah house. In New York we had long grass in our
backyard that led to woods. There were not only grasshoppers to chase, but
endless ground hogs and chipmunks to stalk. Many times he'd bring his prize to
the front door and lay it on the step. Hunting kept him happy and tolerant,
when he was being hugged a bit too hard later in the day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He never
seemed to age. As the poodle showed many signs of slowing down, the kitty just
lived, from year to year, like he was the two year old cat we'd adopted at that
far away shelter. It was hard to realize he was getting old.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He moved
with us one more time. This time from New York to Colorado. It was harder to
let him out in our new backyard, because we often had wild animals come
through, and many of our neighbors had lost their small animals to mountain
lion attacks. Ruffie did his begging/praying routine by the back door, as we
tried to say, "Not today, kitty" in our most comforting voice. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-brVeT4wve6A/U1VWCrZ59jI/AAAAAAAABqU/BAu8_yd-5Ik/s1600/2012-11-01+12.27.47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-brVeT4wve6A/U1VWCrZ59jI/AAAAAAAABqU/BAu8_yd-5Ik/s1600/2012-11-01+12.27.47.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Six months
ago he suddenly seemed old. He stopped grooming his fur. I had to give him
weekly baths, which he hated, but seemed to feel so much better afterward. He
got mats in his fur, from laying around all day. I had to shave the back half
of his body, leaving him with a humiliating haircut. He soon rarely left the
spot under the shower chair in our bathroom. He got frequent love, as the
family members cycled through to do their business. We moved his food, water,
and litter box up there, and created his own little retirement home.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The only
exception to his shower chair cave was anywhere Isaac happened to be. Isaac is
the 17 year old who asked me to write this post. He's the Dr. Dootlittle of our
family. He's a pet whisperer. He and Ruffie have grown very close in recent
years. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I could be snuggling with a fluffy kitty on my bed, watching TV, and as
soon as Ruffie heard Isaac headed downstairs to his bedroom for the night, my
kitty pal was gone. Leaping off the bed, padding down the hall way, ending up
curled up to his favorite person. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Isaac
carried him around like a baby. He seemed to enjoy it. When the rest of us
would try it, he'd squirm and jump down. Isaac could do anything to him and
he'd always come back for more. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When Isaac
walked into the house at night, Ruffie came running. He knew when his favorite
guy was home and casually, without seeming too needy, would hang out anywhere
that Isaac was. Playing video games? Ruffie was curled up on the couch behind
him. Watching a movie? Ruffie walked the back edge of the couch, reminding
Isaac that he was there. That cat loved my boy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And my boy
loved him back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nwi90_Kt6Qg/U1VWVAkiIZI/AAAAAAAABqc/gWc-lUUAd5I/s1600/2013-02-27+17.51.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nwi90_Kt6Qg/U1VWVAkiIZI/AAAAAAAABqc/gWc-lUUAd5I/s1600/2013-02-27+17.51.26.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On Sunday,
Isaac came to us and said, "Where's the cat?" I don't really keep
tabs on him. He's so independent, I just wait to hear him fussing if he needs
food or water. But Isaac knew where he was at all times, and he couldn't find
him in his regular spots. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We weren't
concerned. Ruffie liked hiding places and I assumed he was just lost in someone's
bed covers, or tucked away in a closet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then Isaac
came back in the room, crying. "He died", was all he said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It was hard
to comprehend. Especially for a boy whose time at home was spent practically
attached to that kitty. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sometime in
the night, Ruffie had crawled under the bed in the guest bedroom and taken his
last breath. I would assume he went peacefully. He never showed us signs of
pain. It was devastating for Isaac to be the one who found him, but also
appropriate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The first
person to touch him, to pet his still soft fur, and to tell him goodbye, was
his favorite person. I have no doubt he was watching from kitty heaven, sitting
on his haunches, doing his begging act, to say, "I loved you too,
Isaac."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It's the
biggest loss my boy has ever had. It hurts deeply. In the past week the rest of
us have missed hearing Ruffie padding around the house. We've missed petting
him every time we went into the bathroom. But Isaac has missed him in a deeper
way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">His arms are
empty. His bed is not quite as warm. He plays video games by himself. He's
going to have to learn to come in the back door and not have his first instinct
to be 'finding the cat'. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We will bury
Ruffie's ashes in a hole next to our poodle's ashes, in a cozy spot under a
tree in a beautiful park called Elk Meadow. We will stack rocks on his grave
and say sad and loving things about him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then life
will go on. My boy will carry around grief for his kitty for a very long time.
The bigger your heart, the deeper it hurts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some day we
will get another kitty. Because Isaac will be leaving home soon for schooling,
we aren't sure what our next step should be. But for now we've put away his
litter box, run his bowls through the dishwasher, and</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> learned to live with the
wide open bathroom floor that no longer contains our kitty.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ruffie was a
huge part of our family. He grew up with the kids and they will all miss him.
But Ruffie knows that he was loved and he led a good life. What stray kitty
wouldn't love being cuddled by a tall teenage boy?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> He was a blessed kitty
indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-38611332036616859552014-04-01T21:22:00.000-04:002014-04-01T21:22:57.145-04:00Why I Cried at Safeway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L78tGh_prY8/UztlXrQa3DI/AAAAAAAABo4/nr-za1d55aU/s1600/1557635_449383891851756_244904661_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L78tGh_prY8/UztlXrQa3DI/AAAAAAAABo4/nr-za1d55aU/s1600/1557635_449383891851756_244904661_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Dear Top
People at Safeway, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I have lived
all over the country and have called many grocery store chains my 'home' store.
I currently live in the mountains of Colorado and my nearest place to purchase
the food that keeps my teenagers alive is a Safeway store. To say I know the
employees of your Evergreen Colorado Safeway store well would be an
understatement. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Until today
I've been very pleased by the service I get at my local store. I load up my
digital coupons, buy what's on sale, and accumulate our much needed gas points. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I adore the 'kid' who works in the fruits and veggies section, who always has a
smile and never seems bored with stacking apples and re-filling packages of
baby carrots. Just about every time I'm shopping, one of your employees asks
me, as I'm roaming the aisles, if there is anything they can help me with. The
staff at the deli counter keeps my family in great turkey and potato salad
every week. And the check out gang is so familiar to me that they almost feel
like seeing family every week. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But today
your people surprised me. At least, one of your people did, and I feel that she
represents the entirety of your staff. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This
afternoon I had the usual overflowing cart and was just about done with my hour
long shopping trip. On the long haul to the check out lanes I briefly stopped
by the Easter section. As I stood there, contemplating what I should throw in
the cart, a young woman wearing a Safeway shirt asked me, "Can I help you
find anything?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'm used to
this question. I almost said, no thanks. But I instantly decided that I could
use a little help. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">You see, I was searching for some Easter candy to send to my
son. He's holed up in some remote location in the Middle East, and will most
likely be doing military exercises with his Army platoon on the day that the
big Bunny comes to houses around here. I was really hoping to send him some
Easter celebration in a care package, but one thing was tripping me up. I can't
mail him chocolate. It has a good chance of melting before it reaches him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So I was
faced with packing an Easter care package that didn't have chocolate. No
bunnies. No eggs. None of the fun stuff. I shared my dilemma with your
employee. She spent a few minutes helping me track down some pretty good
options. I thought I'd looked through it all, but she ended up offering some
pretty decent substitution suggestions. Then she went on her way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A half an
hour later I had my full cart unloaded onto the conveyor belt, scanned, and
re-packed into the cart. Except for one pile. At first I thought the check out
woman had forgotten to add all of my Easter selections to my bill. I assumed
she thought they belonged to the customer behind me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">When I
asked, this is what she said, "No, we aren't charging you for this stuff.
The young lady who helped you pick it out told me to suspend the transaction
and let her pay for it...for your son."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I was
shocked. But sure enough, after I paid for my family's groceries, I was handed
a bag full of Easter fun, with no charge. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As a mom who
has a son in the Middle East, sometimes holidays are hard. Even when I have
three other children 'back home', the one who is not here is the one who weighs
heavy on your heart. Especially when he's in a place that's not quite as safe
as an Easter bunny's lap. All I can do
is send him care packages and spend a lot of time praying for his safe return. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The kindness
your employee showed today means more than she'll ever know. I don't know if
she has a family member in the military, or if she's just full of patriotism,
but she sure made my day. And the day of my husband, who was as shocked and
honored as I was, when I told him the story tonight at the dinner table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">When I got
home, I shared this on my facebook page - this act of kindness that your
employee did, to make me walk to my car with tears running down my face. Within
an hour I had 57 'likes'. I wanted to let everyone know that there are good
people (and good companies) out there, doing little acts of kindness that might
not seem like much - but just might make one certain mom's day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'll be
sending this letter to you and to my local store. I want your employee to know
how much I appreciated her message to our family. And I want the rest of the
staff of your store to know, just when I thought I couldn't feel more positive
about my experiences there every week, one of them steps up to the plate and hits
a home run.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">One Very
Loyal Shopper<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-91132777567165019272014-03-28T04:02:00.001-04:002014-03-28T04:02:15.470-04:00Max is Lost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UHOAEUO1bec/UzUodZ7OrmI/AAAAAAAABn4/yUha9hEdBd4/s1600/2013-03-05+17.41.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UHOAEUO1bec/UzUodZ7OrmI/AAAAAAAABn4/yUha9hEdBd4/s1600/2013-03-05+17.41.58.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We got the
call on the day after Thanksgiving, which also happened to be my birthday.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was standing in a massive hotel lobby, surrounded by every one of my four
siblings, their families, my one surviving pair of aunt/uncle, and my dad and
stepmom. We were in the middle of a rare Johnson family reunion, taking turns
standing in front of the three story Christmas tree the hotel had so
beautifully decorated and we had so conveniently borrowed for the backdrop of
our family pictures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the middle of all the joy, my friend from
'back home' was in my ear, saying, "Judy, I hate to tell you this, but Max
ran away on Wednesday and we just can't find him." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This was not
the call I'd expected. Every one of us had been worried that our elderly cat
would decide to say his final goodbyes the minute we hit the road for Dallas. In
fact, when my husband got the text from my friend, saying, 'Call me as soon as
you can', I was sure that my birthday would from that day forward be associated
with the day our beloved cat died. But the cat was fine. Still hanging out
comfortably on his favorite folded up blanket. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Instead, the dog was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We still
called Max our puppy. Maybe it's because we'd never had a younger dog before we
got Max. We spent the kids' childhoods moving all over the country and a dog
was a bit too labor intensive for our lifestyle. We got the cat from a shelter in
the mid 2000s and knew we'd commit to the dog when the time was right. Then,
after we'd settled in Upstate NY, and thought it was our last move, we'd
adopted Kylie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She was an
elderly, pure bred poodle, as sweet as the day is long. We had five great years
with her and finally lost her, mainly to 'old age', just after we uprooted from
NY and made the move to Colorado. She was never energetic. She was more the
type who loved curling up with you to watch movies. Or sit next to you on the
front porch, enjoying the weather. When we took her to meet the new vet in CO,
and the doctor asked us how Kylie was doing on her 'daily hikes', we had to
hold back our laughter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Kylie was not a fan of the minimal one loop around the
block, much less a hike through the many open meadows and mountain trails we
now lived in the midst of. She'd been bred for years, before we'd found her at
the shelter. She was a tired ole girl and just wanted to relax away the rest of
her life. So we loved her up for her last years on the planet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not soon
after we buried Kylie's ashes next to one of our favorite local trails, we
found Max. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Or, more accurately, I went to work one Saturday morning and came
home a few hours later to reports by the children along the lines of 'we found this great dog and dad said we
might get him!' This was a bit of a surprise, as we'd just had a family meeting
the week before, and the hubby had decided it might be good to settle into our
new Colorado life a bit more before we decided what kind of dog we'd get next. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I guess a week was enough 'settle' time, because, while out running errands
that day, they'd seen this precious floppy eared soul sitting at the back of
the enclosure in the middle of a pet adoption fair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Max and his
siblings has been born to a farmer's dog and were barely tolerated. After a few
of Max's siblings got hit by cars on their remote country road, the neighbors
called the local shelter. Max was just over six months old and not sure who he
could trust in the world. But he was calm, and he was loving, and he seemed to
need a bunch of kids as much as they needed him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I met him
the next day, as the kids brought him to the Rec Center where I work. I'm a
mama, deep in my soul a mama, so all I could see was another little creature
who needed some nurturing. I was game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We had so
much love and life to share with Max that we intimidated him a bit in the first
few weeks. We had to remind each other to give him space, give him time to
trust us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He slowly
learned that the warm bed would be there every night and the tasty food would
fall into his dish twice a day. He loved his crate, filled with soft pillows
and blankets by his new fan club. It took him a bit to learn that we were
trustworthy. By the end of one day he would be snuggling on the couch with one
of the kids and by morning he'd seem to have forgotten that we were his new
forever family. But we were patient and showed him over and over again that we
weren't going anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We made
endless memories, in the year and a half that we became his and he became ours. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On a good day he'd get in a two hour hike up mountain trails with one of our
teenagers, then a second one when Dad got home and needed to be outdoors to
shake off too much time at a desk. With great gusto he'd run frantic circles
around our back yard, sometimes chasing a ball and sometimes just chasing his
own spirit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4O6Sy-8vl8Y/UzUqxVAmvXI/AAAAAAAABoE/OQ-fgjv5AkU/s1600/2012-10-14+14.01.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4O6Sy-8vl8Y/UzUqxVAmvXI/AAAAAAAABoE/OQ-fgjv5AkU/s1600/2012-10-14+14.01.29.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He quickly picked up on the 'keys' cue and whenever any of us went
to run errands he sat up tall by the side door, eyebrows raised, ears perked
high, seeming to ask with facial expressions alone, "Do I get to go
too??" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He was happy
to just go along for the ride. He never minded hanging out in the truck or
minivan while groceries were selected or library books picked out. He loved
just being out, seeing people coming and going across the parking lot, smelling
the unique smells that every part of town inhabits. It was an added bonus if
the trip ended up at 'that stoplight', the one that led to the dog park a few
miles from home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For the
first time in our kids' lives, they had a true puppy. A dog who could be riled
up by a raised eyebrow or pitch change in their voice. A dog who ran twice as
fast as they did, but always circled back to find his people before the trail
got too long. A dog who held promise of many more years of memories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TgK7uqzIc0I/UzUq_VCq1yI/AAAAAAAABoM/HY4Ryl5JaP8/s1600/2012-12-08+23.01.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TgK7uqzIc0I/UzUq_VCq1yI/AAAAAAAABoM/HY4Ryl5JaP8/s1600/2012-12-08+23.01.33.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I first
heard the news that Max had run away I was not surprised, especially once I
heard the details of his escape. We'd told my friend that Max didn't need a
leash when he was in our yard. The weather in November is chilly enough that
he's motivated to do his business and get back inside. So on the Wednesday
before Thanksgiving, a day after we left town, she came over to our house and
started the routine of taking care of the animals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She opened
the sliding back door and watched him run to his favorite spot in the back
corner of our yard, the place where the woods begin. She sat quietly at our
picnic table, waiting for him to finish his business. Once he was done he
looked back at her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He held her gaze for a long minute, then he turned and ran.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have no
doubt that it was nothing that my friend did wrong. She fed him exactly as we'd
told her to. She tried her best to pet him and love on him, when he'd allow her
to get close, which wasn't very often. She is an animal loving person and has
the skill of knowing just how much room to give him. But when he looked back
and saw her sitting at that picnic table, something in his brain clicked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His family was
gone. And he had the wide open woods in front of him. He was going to go find
them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By the time
she ran down to her house and got her car, he was long gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She spent
the next 48 hours, including much of her own Thanksgiving holiday, searching
high and low for our puppy. With her own
teenagers riding along to keep her company, she drove the mountainous roads in
our town. She called every shelter, vet and sheriff's department she could
think of. She called friends who live locally and begged them to be on the
lookout for a very lost, probably cold and hungry puppy who was just looking
for his kids. And then finally, she knew she had to break down and call us to
let us know he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Through the
rest of our reunion we tried not to think about the fact Max was not at home.
We tried not to think about the fact it was cold out and, in our town, he had
about as much of a chance of being found as he did of just being hopelessly
lost in the wilderness. We all knew that he was not the trained hunting dog who
would naturally know how to forage for food and create shelter. He was our
puppy, who was born in a barn, and
neglected until he came to our house, where he was promptly spoiled rotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The drive
back to Colorado, from Texas, was a long one. The letdown after a much
anticipated vacation with people we love and rarely get to see was punctuated
by the fact my friend had not called to say that Max had been found. The quiet
cell phone meant he was still out there, somewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We got back
on Saturday night. We found his crate, along with his water and food bowls,
carefully placed on our back patio, by my friend who was hoping he'd just come
back home when the hunger got the best of him. She said some nights the food
would be gone by morning, but that doesn't mean much when our trash cans are
regularly scavenged by bears and other wild animals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
continued to beat herself up, blaming herself for his escape, even though I
continually reminded her that she'd done everything right. Our puppy was just
not interested in the basics of care. He wanted his kids. And there wasn't much
she could do to stop him from going to find them. Once we got into town, I told
her to leave the hunt to us. She'd done enough, tortured herself enough, and it
was time to let us put in some detective work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sunday,
which normally would have been used for unpacking and watching football, my
youngest son and his daddy drove all the same roads my friend had been driving,
hoping that hearing their voices would bring Max out of his hiding place. They hiked all the trails at his favorite dog
park. They called shelters and sheriff offices. In the middle of the night
Sunday I was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, praying that in the end we
would just find out, either way, what had happened to our precious boy. When it
became apparent that sleep would not come, I got out of bed and made my way
downstairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I checked
the back porch. Crate still there, door open. Food and water dishes, still
full. I opened the sliding door just a crack and whistled. A few times I called
his name, trying not to wake the neighbors, but still reach as far as it could
go into the woods behind our house. No rustling. No energetic little brown dog
running toward his warm home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I signed up
for a Craigslist account and posted a heartfelt plea, along with an recent
picture of Max in both the lost and found and the pet sections. I also scoured
the 'found' listings, hoping that I'd stumble upon our boy. Lots of pit bull
mixes and Chihuahuas, but no medium brown dog with floppy ears. I went to the
back door, called for him one more time, then fell into a fitful sleep on the
couch that is nearest the door where he just might reappear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The most
heart breaking part of the experience was helping my youngest son handle his
grief. Max was his friend. Max was the loving constant in his life, when older
siblings were pushing too many of his buttons. I cried along with him on Sunday
night, as he sobbed to me, "But I was supposed to grow up with Max!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A big part
of his grief came from the not knowing. His mind immediately went to the worst
case scenario. "I can see him in my mind, curled up in the wild...cold and
suffering!" he cried to me. I
assured him that there was just as much chance that someone had found him and
was still trying to figure out who to call so we could be reunited. I hoped it
was true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I
snuggled up with him on my king sized bed on Sunday night, trying to help him
drift off to sleep while Dad and his older brother did one more lap around the
dog parks and neighborhood roads in the dark, I found myself telling him
stories of the day I felt my deepest grief, the day I lost my mom. I told him
about the days after she died, a handful of years before he was born, and how deeply
sad I'd felt. He held my hand as I cried new tears for her, understanding for
the first time these stories of a grandmother he never knew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Monday I
found myself searching for him in the woods along the road as I drove to the
grocery store. Maybe he was somewhere in those shadows, hunkered down, waiting
us out. Maybe he was injured, just a short distance from home, and unable to
even hobble the short distance to help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Once back
home I went to the back door and whistled, calling his name, a few times every
hour. Part of me wanted to believe he truly was 'okay'. That he was in
someone's house, being fed, maybe bathed, before they drove him to the shelter,
where we'd find him. But part of me knew that sustained temperatures in the teens,
along with wind gusts in the high 70s didn't make for a very friendly climate
for a skinny dog surviving in the woods. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My older son
went to his college classes on Monday, then spent the rest of the day driving
around Denver, visiting every shelter he could find, hoping to see a familiar
puppy's face. He came home tired and defeated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We all went
to bed on Monday night with heavy hearts. What we didn't know was that we
wouldn't sleep for long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just after
midnight I awoke to my daughter's voice, screaming, "He's BACK! Max is
BACK!" Within seconds of sitting up in bed, there he was, running down the
hallway to our bedroom. It was hard to imagine it wasn't a dream. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My husband,
Max's favorite hiking buddy, sat up and said, "Max?" in a surprised
voice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was all the encouragement he needed. Two seconds later a very dirty,
smelly dog had jumped up on our bed, a place he was never allowed before he got
lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was
much petting and grinning and pronouncements of "I can't believe he's
home!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He was home.
Smelling like a dead animal and thinner than we'd ever seen him, he was home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My daughter
had been asleep when a scratching sound woke her up. Then she heard a tinkling
sound, like dog tags clinking against each other. On a whim she climbed out of
bed and made her way to the back door. And there he was. He'd found his way
home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the days
after, as I slowly introduced his system to healthy food, we had hints of his
trials. Apparently he had not found a friendly person to feed him and protect
him from the wind. He coughed up several piles of pine needles and bark. After
a very long bath (with two 'repeat and rinses') he made his way to his cozy
crate and sunk down into the fluffy blankets. He slept away most of two whole
days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZTxI_KIYxHY/UzUr0EGBpkI/AAAAAAAABoY/TqPwNJPYv-w/s1600/DSC00256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZTxI_KIYxHY/UzUr0EGBpkI/AAAAAAAABoY/TqPwNJPYv-w/s1600/DSC00256.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And then he
was back. His energy was back. His joy was back. Our Max was back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The day
after he returned we had temperatures that fell below zero and many inches of
new snowfall. We all recognized that if he hadn't come home when he did, he
probably wouldn't have made it. The conditions were just too brutal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But he did
make it. With whatever God has in heaven that protects the creatures of the
earth, our Max was watched over and led home at just the right time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our puppy
thought he could find his kids, after they dared to leave him for more than a
day. He ran and ran and struggled and struggled. But in the end all it took for
him to find them was the simple act of finding his way home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back to that
sliding door that leads to the place where he is loved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hAp_2OZh364/UzUsd6WvUOI/AAAAAAAABog/kjfe4ZQxsRU/s1600/DSC00401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hAp_2OZh364/UzUsd6WvUOI/AAAAAAAABog/kjfe4ZQxsRU/s1600/DSC00401.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-32354253209143079302014-03-20T13:10:00.003-04:002014-03-20T13:10:21.617-04:00Trading Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bHgopgJDMIM/UysgGr-cDLI/AAAAAAAABng/2aS2-oMwkmk/s1600/DSC02139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bHgopgJDMIM/UysgGr-cDLI/AAAAAAAABng/2aS2-oMwkmk/s1600/DSC02139.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It's been my
crusade for over a decade now, and it's finally catching on. When I was doing
research about the option of cutting off my foot I had very few resources to
pick from. The internet was a baby and mostly full of company websites. The
library had zero books on amputation or amputees. Through Amazon I found a
doctor's manual, showing what an amputation surgery looks like, and exactly three
books about extreme sport amputees. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But I knew
I'd never be an extreme sports enthusiast. I was just a mom who wanted a more
active life so I could stop missing out on my kids' lives. I needed to hear
stories about people who traded in their bad limb and, in turn, received a normal
life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">On January
12, 2004 I finally got rid of that twisted foot. Three months later I got my
first leg. I was amazed by the energy return I felt from my left side when I
walked. I'd dragged that old foot around for so many years I'd forgotten what
even gait felt like.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ten years
later I still have no regrets. On the rare days that I get frustrated with some
of the logistics of having this metal leg, I just think about how life would
have been if I'd chosen not to amputate. Those mental images are enough to
remind me that I'm in a pretty good place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ten years later,
the perception of amputees has totally changed. When I was a kid, people didn't
know much about amputees. They were generally seen as old men in wheelchairs
who'd lost their legs in Vietnam. I have amputee friends who have been without
their limb since childhood. They had a much tougher road than I did. I got to
hide my disability in a well strapped in shoe. And then when I finally got
brave enough to get rid of it, society was fascinated by the bionics I wore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ten years
later I'm seeing references on television about how being an amputee isn't that
big of a deal. On the show Modern Family, the sister is kidding the brother
that his minor leg injury might mean they need to cut it off. His reply goes
something like, "That's okay...then I could get one of those cool running
legs!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ten years
later I have a young, strong lifeguard kid at my work telling me about when he
accidentally shot himself in the leg last year. He knew it was bad (it was a
hollow point bullet) but on the ride in the ambulance he kept telling himself
it would be okay if he lost his leg, because he knew he'd get a perfectly
functioning artificial leg. Life would go on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A lot has
changed in ten years. But my specific crusade still has a long way to go. I'm
personally aware of the hundreds (thousands) of people who are struggling with
the option of elective amputation. They have severe leg or foot injuries that
will never heal. They will be in pain and/or have terrible mobility for the
rest of their lives. They've had dozens of surgeries to repair the damage and
there is no more hope. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Choosing to
just cut it off was not on the table ten years ago. But today it can be. Within
six months they will be active again. Of course if they started out with two
healthy legs, they will never find a prosthetic leg that is exactly like a
healthy real leg. But they will find a leg that is much better than the one
they've been stuck with. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And they
will have a chance to get good, smooth, pain free gait back. As much as the
idea might horrify their loved ones, the option is a good one. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This morning
I pulled up Hulu and watched an episode of Grey's Anatomy. A friend had told me
about it's story line. I never watch this show so I'm glad she gave me the
heads up. In the episode, a young girl who was born with club feet has decided
she's done with surgeries. She just wants to cut it off and start over. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This
was my mantra for most of my life, "Why can't we cut it off and start
over?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This episode
was literally my story. At first the doctors are not ready to give up. They've
been operating on her for three years and to them, cutting it off is complete
failure on their part. But once they see the picture from the patient's side,
they get it. They get that giving this young girl a set of prosthetic legs will
open up her world. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She was
never going to have straight, pain free feet. But if they let her choose the
metal and plastic feet she was seeing in the media, at least she'd have a
chance at a very normal life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For years I
had doctors telling me I was not a candidate for amputation. Many of them said to me, "It is pink and
it has a pulse. We don't cut off 'healthy' limbs." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">They could
never hear the part about my frustration of being left on the couch while my
family went on adventures, or having to adjust our plans because 'mom can't
walk that far'. I wanted to scream at them, 'Doesn't that count for anything?'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I was so
pleased to see a mainstream show a very legitimate case about elective
amputation. I have big dreams. I'll keep plugging away with my message and
maybe someday those two words will be more understood. I'll keep writing posts,
submitting articles, talking to doctors, and slowly I'll get the word out. Who
knows where we could be, ten years from now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-61200773582270454392014-02-08T13:28:00.000-05:002014-02-08T13:28:20.058-05:00Why I Wore My Seahawks Shirt To Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UzUq8JnJqFA/UvZ1Br0nz-I/AAAAAAAABms/VpMlfXWzatI/s1600/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UzUq8JnJqFA/UvZ1Br0nz-I/AAAAAAAABms/VpMlfXWzatI/s1600/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It was all
fun and light hearted in the weeks before the big kick off. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This team that I
had loved for most of my life was finally headed for the Super Bowl. This team
that never seemed to make the papers. This team that no one ever paid attention
to. This team that just kept plugging away, season after season, even when they
mostly had marginal seasons. I loved them anyway and was the loyal fan, wearing
the jersey, and snatching up any Seahawk trinket I found on sale (Seahawks
stuff is generally found on the clearance racks). Now they were finally headed
to the big game and I could not have been more excited.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In a
terrible twist of fates, the team we were facing in this important game
happened to be the home team of my friends and neighbors. Just two years ago we
moved to the sunny state of Colorado, where the Broncos fans had closets full
of orange garb. They didn't take much notice to the new girl, who preferred to
wear green and blue. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Until the season unfolded and suddenly we were facing each
other at the Super Bowl. Then the ribbing started.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I started to
wear my team gear to work, as I sat at the front desk of our local Recreation
Center. As the Orange streamed through the doors on the way to basketball
practice or swim meets, they would make comments and pretend to be insulted
when they noticed my not-orange. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">They were all very confident that I was the
one that would be wiping tears from my cheeks when February 2nd rolled around.
They seemed to think it was 'cute' that there was a Seahawks fan in the midst. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">One little
boy was downright confused. After seeing my Shaun Alexander jersey he did a
double take and said, "...but that's not our team." It had never occurred
to him that those Hawks might have fans too. Fans who lived in Colorado. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Bets were
made. Not bets involving money. Bets involving wearing the winning team's
jersey and gift cards to Qdoba. I have been a Payton Manning fan for many years. To say I wasn't a bit nervous about
the guy who'd set many records in his fifteenth season of being an iconic
quarterback would be a lie. But I was just proud that my guys earned their own
way to the dance and knew they had a decent shot of holding that Manning guy
back for a bit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then the
game happened. My team won. No, my team didn't just win. We played the best
game we've played all year. We ran on all cylinders. We held back a team that
is filled with talented, top shelf players. And by the middle of the first half
it was pretty apparent that we might have a shot at that trophy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was pretty
much out of my mind. I kept turning to my boys and saying, "Is this
happening? Is this really happening?" I couldn't believe we were not just
winning, we were dominating. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And then I could hardly comprehend that we'd WON. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It didn't
take long to realize my new dilemma. My Seahawks had just won the Super Bowl, a
game that the Broncos were pretty confident they'd take. And a game that my
local friends were <i>very</i> confident they'd take. I was now the local enemy. While
I saw the celebrations in Seattle, thousands of fans in green and blue high
fiving, and screaming, and congratulating each other, I realized I'd feel safer
in my Colorado home if the doors were immediately locked. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I knew my
days of wearing my Seahawks gear into work were over. I was the one to hate. It
just made it more tricky that my prosthetic leg was covered in Seahawks logos.
I'd never be able to wear shorts again. Super Bowl losses this big are not
forgotten in weeks, or even months. People in Colorado will never forget that
they lost the Super Bowl of 2014. And they'd never forget who took it from
them. I had instantly become a closeted Seahawks fan.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As the week
wore on it started to make me kind of mad. I'd waited for over 30 years, never
knowing if my team would ever win this game and now that it had happened I
couldn't celebrate. I couldn't be loud and proud and wear out the gear that
hung in my closet. If we lived anywhere besides Colorado I'd be congratulated
every time I ran into someone I knew. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But now I had to just hang my head and
pretend it had never happened, or risk angering the people around me. I
couldn't put a Seahawks sticker on my car and not risk vandalism. I couldn't
hang my 12th man flag in front of my house without fearing retribution. I was
not a Broncos hater. I was just a crazy Seahawks lover. It wasn't personal. But
I knew they'd forever hate me anyway. It just didn't seem fair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My work week
starts on Wednesday. I put on my standard issue Rec Center shirt and headed in.
My plan was to just keep my mouth shut and scrape whatever joy I could from the
online celebrations I kept seeing on my Seattle related facebook feeds. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then a
surprising thing happened. The Broncos fans started showing up and asking why I
didn't wear my gear. They high fived me and told me congratulations. Some of
them pretended to be mad but would then break out in a grin and say, "Your
team played awesome..." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was a bit
confused until one of the orange-est of them all said to me, "We're not
mad at you. Your team played great. Our team didn't. You didn't rob us from a
win. We didn't play well enough to take it from you." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was blown
away. They didn't hate me. They
recognized that the better team that day had taken home the rings. The fans of
the Orange showed as much class and grace as their quarterback, Manning. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So on Friday
I wore my green shirt to work. It has a big Seahawks logo across the front. All
day long I got more high fives and a couple of 'we're with you's from a few
other closeted Seahawks fans in our area. I kept waiting for the anger, the hostility
and the rudeness, and it never came. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I
underestimated the fans in Orange. They love their guys, they love their team.
They fill that stadium with joy and energy every single time a home game is
played. They had an amazing season, watching their 'new' quarterback show the
world that a true champion can come back from a huge medical issue and be
better than ever. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">They get
geared up for big games. They bring out the jerseys, bumper stickers, stocking
caps and t-shirts. Their kids are all in, wearing the gear to school and
volleyball practice at the Rec Center. They are a motivated bunch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But they are
also a classy bunch. They recognize good football and get frustrated when
things don't go their way. And when the scoreboard is not their friend they do
the right thing. They pound their fist on the arm rest of the couch and storm
up to the kitchen for a consoling snack. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But, lucky for me, they know where to
place their frustration. And they don't hold it against the girl in blue and
green who sits at the front desk of the Rec Center and helps them sign their
kid up for dance class. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm proud of
my Bronco loving neighbors. I really am. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But I'm still not risking the bumper
sticker on the back of my Suburban. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">At least not until the Broncos win a Super
Bowl of their own. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-40247397579112012462014-01-20T23:56:00.000-05:002014-01-20T23:56:42.649-05:00Another Reason Why I Love My Hawks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YaSat-zIriI/Ut37CWvpG7I/AAAAAAAABl0/Joz1XZI2ew8/s1600/DSC01548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YaSat-zIriI/Ut37CWvpG7I/AAAAAAAABl0/Joz1XZI2ew8/s1600/DSC01548.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The article
that intrigued me came out in August of 2013. A reporter for ESPN wrote an <a href="http://espn.go.com/nfl/story/_/id/9581925/seattle-seahawks-use-unusual-techniques-practice-espn-magazine">indepth feature</a> on how Pete Carroll's coaching style was different. Very
different. If you haven't met me, let me introduce myself. My name is Judy and
I'm a crazy Seattle Seahawks fan. Pete Carroll is the Seahawk's coach. And, as it turns out, he
does things the way I think they should be done. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In Alyssa
Roenigk's <a href="http://espn.go.com/nfl/story/_/id/9581925/seattle-seahawks-use-unusual-techniques-practice-espn-magazine">ESPN article</a> she gave me a behind the scenes peek at what kind of
coach the Seahawks were working with. What she described thrilled me, but also
scared me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Was it possible to go against the hard core way football has been
coached for decades, and still have a winning team? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In August of last year, as
Coach Carroll's plan was still basically in beta mode, all I could do was cross my fingers and hope.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ms. Roenigk
described an atmosphere of support and encouragement (imagine that). After having a bumpy ride
as an NFL coach, then being knocked down to coaching on the college level, Pete
Carroll had been making notes to himself for years, hoping and praying he got a
chance to coach in the big time again. He knew if he got a second chance, he'd
do it differently. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Just like in
effective parenting, Carroll had never felt like yelling and demeaning players was
an effective way to motivate them. He decided that he'd try a more radical,
upside down approach. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Why not accept the fact that his players were people?
People who sometimes didn't get enough sleep, or had troubles at home. Why not
bring in a specialist on meditation and teach his guys to be more in touch with
themselves? Why not insist that everyone in the organization, from the top
specialty coaches to the guys sweeping floors, be affirmative?
He did all of that and more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This change
started on day one of his tenure as coach. In his very first team meeting he
made a subtle request that said a lot more to him than any stats sheet could. He
simply asked the players to get up and change seats, to get a new perspective. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Matt
Hasselbeck was the quarter back at the time and he remembers it this way. </span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">"One guy in the back of the auditorium
didn't switch seats. He was a big-money guy, a
starter. And he was gone a week later. Pete didn't care about the seats. He
just wanted to know who was with him."</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The way he
picks his players also employs a new strategy. He looks for the guy who is good
at his position, but also has a positive demeanor that will fit with his
philosophy. Not all players appreciate the more touchy-feely style of coaching.
So my coach needs a roster of players who are open to a new way of thinking. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">One
trick I especially love, which I should try on my teenagers some day, is the deliberate
turning off of the air conditioners in the team buildings, just to see who the
complainers are and then helping them with their attitudes. I think his players
might fare better than my kids would. He has also taken prospective
players bowling, to see how they handle winning and losing, at a game that has
nothing to do with a leather ball. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">His changes
shook up the way things were run all the way to the place where players went
for nutritional nourishment. Carroll not only has experts on staff to help
players get the right kinds of foods in their diet, he has set up the cafeteria
with signs bearing suggestions about which foods would pair best with the one
in front of a player. Not only are their fruits and vegetables grown locally on
organic farms, the food waste from the cafeteria goes to a nearby chicken farm
to be fed to chickens that will then, in turn, be served to players. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Practices
and team meetings are set up to be hard work, but also fun. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xXWJpADFBk0/Ut39gwsTUMI/AAAAAAAABmA/VUSML1o8ekg/s1600/1395779_10151679596806722_35374926_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xXWJpADFBk0/Ut39gwsTUMI/AAAAAAAABmA/VUSML1o8ekg/s1600/1395779_10151679596806722_35374926_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Carroll has a DJ on the
side of the field at team practices, and the meditation expert is often seen walking
through the players on the field, just in case anyone needs a reminder to be
settled and in control. Carroll allows players to be themselves, as long as
they do their jobs when it counts. And if they don't? There is no yelling and
berating. There are meetings where changes are made in a respectful way and
players are asked, "What do you think is keeping you from playing your
best? Let's fix it" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Who would
have thought we'd see the day where we actually desired to be treated like a
six foot six, hard core football player when we're at work? Carroll's guys go to
a pretty desirable place when they leave home to 'go to work'. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He had no
idea if it would work, or if he'd just create a locker room full of soft
pansies, but he was determined to try it. He insisted that his players work a
yoga routine into their training schedules. He hired physiologists to be
available to any players who might need an ear. Instead of seeing how tough a
rookie was by allowing hazing, he worked hard to make them feel like an
important part of the family, right away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Doug Baldwin, a Seattle Seahawks wide receiver, likes the way his coach does things. In a <a href="http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2011/writers/dan_shaughnessy/01/10/pete.carroll/">Sports Illustrated article</a>, written by Doug Farrar, he spells
it out. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“I think the perception of
football players and football coaches is that everything has to be structured
in a sense that it has to be hard and difficult and there’s no fun — football
is not supposed to be fun,” he said. “That’s just not the case. I think that
the teams that are the most successful are the teams that have fun doing what
they’re doing. It just goes against the grain of what the perception is of what
football is supposed to be. It’s not supposed to be fun, it’s supposed to be
hard and rigorous and you fight for your wins. Here, we have a fun time
practicing, we have a fun time in our meetings, and that ultimately leads to us
having a fun time out there on the field game day — which I think contributes
to our success.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Richard Sherman, one of the
Seahawk's cornerbacks and one of the best at his position in the NFL, agrees
with his teammate. In the same Sports Illustrated article he explains his perception
of his coach. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“He’s not soft, but he’s
easygoing. He’s loose. As loose as you can get out there. He allows his players
to be who they are within the confines of the team, as long as it doesn’t hurt
the team, he allows guys to be themselves. If you’re a reserved guy that’s
always focused, that’s always locked in that like an Earl Thomas is, he allows
you to be that guy and be locked in 100 percent of the time. If you’re a loose
guy and you dance at practice like I do, he allows you to be that guy. As long
as when you’re on the field you do exactly what you’re supposed to do.</span>"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The players aren't the
only ones catching Carroll's vision. The Seahawk's assistant head coach, Tom Cable,
used to be one of the aggressive coaches. He welcomed the new approach and has
realized something very important.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He had this to say in the Sports Illustrated
article: "If I go ballistic on a guy because he dropped his outside hand
or missed an underneath stunt, who is wrong? I am. I'm attacking his
self-confidence and he's learning that if he screws up, he's going to get
yelled at. If you make a mistake here (under Coach Carroll), it's going to get
fixed."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm a lover
of football and a lover of my Seattle Seahawks, but I'm mom before all of that.
I appreciate a coach who will call his players to be the best they can be on
the field, while also supporting their efforts to be the best they can be off of it also.
He's a dad himself so he appreciates respecting his players' time with their
families in the course of a busy football season. He knows firsthand the
importance of not missing a three year old's birthday party. </span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jImkalaBR1w/Ut39vmf9xtI/AAAAAAAABmI/JHZ2sHAyGqU/s1600/1606305_10151818912596722_1397982710_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jImkalaBR1w/Ut39vmf9xtI/AAAAAAAABmI/JHZ2sHAyGqU/s1600/1606305_10151818912596722_1397982710_o.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It's a great example to my own children, about
leadership and seeing others as part of the human race first, above the title
they may or may not hold. I'm proud that this is my team, and my team's coach. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And as for the concern I
had in the back of my mind about how a program run on encouragement and total
support could fare in the NFL, I didn't have long to wait, to see what the
answer would be. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Seahawks had the best season they've ever had, in their 38
year history, starting with winning all four of their preseason games, then
finishing the regular season by winning 13 and losing only 3. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Two days ago they
won their Division Championship against a pretty tough San Fransisco 49ers team.
Their next stop is the biggest game in American football. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As for Coach Carroll, and the
file full of notes he made to himself while he waited for his second chance as
an NFL coach, he sums it up pretty well for me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"I wanted to find out if
we went to the NFL and really took care of guys, really cared about each and
every individual, what would happen?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Well Coach Pete, you have
your answer. You make it to the Super Bowl. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OOuLZ_nq_6c/Ut390svjp3I/AAAAAAAABmQ/oBgcBLVSMds/s1600/1013310_10151827400256722_1596559119_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OOuLZ_nq_6c/Ut390svjp3I/AAAAAAAABmQ/oBgcBLVSMds/s1600/1013310_10151827400256722_1596559119_n.jpg" height="320" width="272" /></a></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-88164458795910160822014-01-13T15:24:00.000-05:002014-01-13T15:24:34.638-05:00Ten Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLr3UTKU12A/UtRImQp6jxI/AAAAAAAABkw/tY75KQC1Kag/s1600/38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLr3UTKU12A/UtRImQp6jxI/AAAAAAAABkw/tY75KQC1Kag/s320/38.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ten years.
It's a long time. It's a short time. It's long enough to make a newborn turn
into a lightning fast soccer player. It's long enough for two married people to
figure out if those vows are going to stick. And it's long enough for a person
to forget what life was like with two flesh and bone feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I had my
amputation surgery ten years ago. On January 12, 2004 I limped into a hospital
in Bountiful, Utah, and climbed up onto a gurney. As I looked down I could see
two bumps sticking up from the light sheet that covered my body. Two feet that
were attached to my legs. The two feet I was born with. And I knew that within
hours the left side of that sheet would lay flat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But somehow
I wasn't scared. It might be hard to believe, but I was actually excited.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I had
lived with a foot I hated for most of my life. Too many times in my childhood
I'd look down at that twisted foot that wouldn't let me do what my friends and
siblings were doing, and I'd curse it. Stupid foot. Why can't you just be
straight?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As the
mother of young children I'd find myself sending hateful thoughts to my left
foot. Was it too much to ask that I could go shopping for groceries, haul them
home, put them in the cabinets, and not be so worn out that I'd have to sink
into the couch for the rest of the day? Dragging that foot, eventually strapped
to a brace, took all my energy. There was limited time to be the mommy I wanted
to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-56pu7-DSFpY/UtRKbcRY-9I/AAAAAAAABlc/hwg2izu0eSs/s1600/img003+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-56pu7-DSFpY/UtRKbcRY-9I/AAAAAAAABlc/hwg2izu0eSs/s320/img003+(4).jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another day,
another disappointment. Jeff is packing up the van for a fun hike through the
local park. It's common knowledge that I won't go. I'll buy a Sunday paper, or
find a good library book, and I'll wait in the van for them to emerge from the
forest. With pink cheeks and excited stories to tell, I soak in their joy. I'll
be the audience, allowed only to watch, not to join in on the stage. The only
hiking pictures I have to sift through in the future are those of them putting
on their tiny backpacks and then the occasional shots of them climbing back in
the van. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By the time
I found myself on that hospital gurney, wrapped in a breezy gown, I was ready.
Ready to get rid of that foot that was nothing but trouble and sadness to me. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now it's ten
years later. A decade has passed since I woke up from that surgery and
instantly lifted the sheet to make sure Dr. Hess had taken enough. I wanted
more than just my withered foot cut off. I needed some of my leg taken too, so
I could have clearance for the exciting prosthetic feet I'd been eyeing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He'd done a
great job. I healed quickly and moved on with my life. By Easter I was walking
on my own, fairly well. No cane or crutches. I was wearing a dress with
sandals. The first time I'd worn sandals in two decades, now that I had a
regular foot. I posed for a picture at church with a friend who had just
finished her chemo treatments. It was a milestone day for both of us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That summer
we toured the Red Rocks of southern Utah and I was part of the fun. I hiked up
the trails to stand under the large arches. I'm in the pictures. No longer held
back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I've tried a
lot of fun things in the past ten years. I was learning to ski on the first
anniversary of my surgery. For the next two years I skied almost every Friday
afternoon, with Jeff by my side, encouraging me with every turn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I've done a
variety of hikes. No Kilimanjaros. Just the kind of hikes that matter to me.
Down an easy trail, with the people I love ahead of me and behind me. Ending up
at a waterfall in Vermont or a bluff in New York. There are many pictures now,
of me on hiking trails. </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7MJ1vTAZaE/UtRKCdAV7dI/AAAAAAAABlQ/yuc3dMHYvek/s1600/26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7MJ1vTAZaE/UtRKCdAV7dI/AAAAAAAABlQ/yuc3dMHYvek/s320/26.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Something I'd never dreamed of while I sat back in that
van, reading my Sunday paper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I've written
a book and had it published. It was started just weeks after my surgery, when
Jeff set me up at the computer, and found a nice resting place for my bandaged
up stump. I had been frustrated during my pre-surgery research, that there were
no books out there about regular amputees. In fact, there were only about four amputee
books on the market back in 2004. They were all about super athletes. I was
impressed, but not really encouraged that I'd find what I imagined on the other
side of this surgery. I wanted to hear from an everyday amputee. Maybe even a
mom, or a dad, who just wanted more mobility and found it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Since I have
some history with writing, I dived in. Chapter by chapter I wrote, edited,
re-wrote, had friends read and make suggestions, wrote some more. For the next
eight years I chipped away at that manuscript. As my new amputee life was
unfolding, I'd go to my computer and get down what it was like in the earlier
days, before my new leg snapped onto my body, so I could share with other
amputees what my journey looked like. For a few months it would be filed away,
as life got crazy. My kids were turning into teens and I didn't have as much
time to write. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then it
would call to me, as yet another stranger would approach me in public and ask,
"How did you lose your leg?" and "My son/daughter/mother/father
just lost his leg. What advice can you give me?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I would be reminded how important it was to
get an amputee book out there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, one
year and three months ago, it was done and published. Now when I get the
questions I can hand them a card. It will take them to my website, that has
many helpful links and several essays. It can say so much more than I can, when
I only have a handful of minutes with a stranger in public. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I've sledded
on icy hills in New Hampshire and Utah with my kids. I've gone along with the
gang, on almost every adventure. There are still days I stay back, when Jeff
and the boys want to do serious hiking in the mountains around us. But when
they come home I'm ready to tackle the challenges that are more my speed.
Walking a trail at the dog park, talking about our day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S38y8k-zjko/UtRJ6a4j6gI/AAAAAAAABlI/Hg0cVBXWE0g/s1600/judy+hike+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S38y8k-zjko/UtRJ6a4j6gI/AAAAAAAABlI/Hg0cVBXWE0g/s320/judy+hike+3.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And, to be
honest, just as important to me, is the simple things I can do. Now that I have
energy return on my left side, I walk more evenly. Both sides are
participating. That means I can do an overflowing cart trip to the grocery
store, haul it to the car, unload it at home and still have plenty of energy
left to do what the rest of the day calls for. Making dinner. Throwing in
laundry. Keeping up with the tall teenagers who live in my house. My leg does
it's part and gets me through my day.
I'm never whole body exhausted when it's time for bed, like I used to be every
night before I got this metal foot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It is truly
hard to remember what it was like to stumble along on that deformed foot. The
only real reminder I have is the phantom pain ache I sometimes feel, coming
from that foot that is no longer there. I can curl the toes on that foot, in my
brain. And sometimes it aches like it used to when I was so hard on it. But
it's not really there. So I rub my stump or shake it out, and the ache is gone.
The foot is gone and the agony is gone. Missing out on my kids' lives is gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S53u9coQrm4/UtRJJkr-0yI/AAAAAAAABk4/u6xfsa2tKns/s1600/32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S53u9coQrm4/UtRJJkr-0yI/AAAAAAAABk4/u6xfsa2tKns/s320/32.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I've been
the lady with the prosthetic leg for a decade now. Most of my kids only know me
as an amputee mom. And to them it's perfectly normal for a mom to have to take
off her leg in the middle of a hot day, and wipe out the sweat, before
continuing the hike. For my now 13 year old, he literally has no memory of me
as a two legged mom. I've always been there for him, with my metal foot to keep
up with what he dished out. My older three have faint memories. They remember
the surgery more than anything. The feeling that this was a big deal and not
knowing what to expect on the other side. Moms are solid and constant. Moms
don't lie on hospital beds and get their limbs cut off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But it
didn't take long for them to see that I was still their mom. Still the same
person. There were long afternoons of card games while I sat on my bed, waiting
for the incision to heal. We snuggled and watched movies. Curled up together
and read books. There wasn't anything scary about a cast and a mom with a
shorter leg. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cR0joX0TM2c/UtRJdN000BI/AAAAAAAABlA/6fj_qVTYnlQ/s1600/img072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cR0joX0TM2c/UtRJdN000BI/AAAAAAAABlA/6fj_qVTYnlQ/s320/img072.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then I was
up and around. They thought the leg was actually pretty cool. Robots and Super
Heros had this kind of stuff. My youngest spent the greater part of his three
year old year hanging out in an office filled with fake hands and feet, as my
prosthetist made adjustments to my leg. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Life
happened. Day after day. We moved from Utah to New York, then New York to
Colorado. And I was 'just the mom'. I continued to buy groceries, mix them up
for dinners, change loads of laundry, and sign school papers. I was not defined
by my artificial limb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I quickly
acclimated to the title of amputee. For so many years I'd tried to hide my disability
and once I had my new leg I found I was proud to identify with the amputee community.
Finally I had a title I could hang on to, a title people understood. And, lucky
for me, by the time I had my surgery, amputees were no longer scary and weird.
We were intriguing, wearing interesting hardware. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I've had a
pretty good ten years. I've grown into my title and tried to represent it well.
I know I'll never walk perfectly but I love working on my gait in public, showing
the world how normal it can be to have a prosthetic leg. I love working out at
the gym, showing others how wonderful my leg is and what it allows me to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I look
forward to the next ten years. I have some personal goals, but what I've
learned along the way is that life can surprise you. I can't wait to see what
I'll write about ten years from now, when I've held this title of amputee for
20 years. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It's going to be amazing. I just know it. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-48015789873798473532013-12-28T17:17:00.000-05:002013-12-28T17:17:22.491-05:00This Time Next Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oDPhAFG1rBY/Ur9MNBYnLHI/AAAAAAAABkU/zgzru33F_UI/s1600/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oDPhAFG1rBY/Ur9MNBYnLHI/AAAAAAAABkU/zgzru33F_UI/s320/1400665_10151716542718716_615228671_o.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's that
time of year. The calendar rolls over to January and suddenly it's time to
start thinking about life changes. Even if you're not into official New Years
resolutions, there's something about a fresh new year, that brand new calendar
page, that inspires change. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe this
year I can do it, you think. Maybe this is the year you will find the courage
to do what needs to be done, to get the life you've dreamed of. I'm not talking
about moving to the Caribbean and living on the beach. I'm talking about the
more personal things. The things that have the potential to change your life in
big ways, if you'll only commit, truly commit to doing them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe it's
getting the courage to start working on a marriage that has changed a bit too
much since the vows were whispered in a big beautiful church. Maybe it's getting serious about all of those
promises you make to your doctor, about how you'll eat better, and get your wimpy
heart some exercise on a regular basis. Or maybe it's getting your messy
finances in order and not having to cringe every time you open the mailbox,
because you fear the stack of bills that hangs out in it's dark interior. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because I
feel your pain, I am going to help you out. I'm going to let you borrow a
phrase that has helped me face some pretty big life moments. I've never run
a marathon or lost a hundred pounds. But I did have my left foot cut off. There's
that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After living
with a deformed foot for most of my life, and never being able to run or jump,
I got rid of my left foot just about ten years ago. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On January 12, 2014 my family will celebrate
the ten year anniversary of the day mom got rid of her old foot and started
over in life with one that works. It happens to be metal, but it works so much
better than the one I got rid of.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And it
wasn't easy. It was as scary as you'd imagine. There were months in bed,
waiting for stitches to heal. At the time my kids were ages 3, 7, 11 and 12. I
had to find a way to be their mom on one leg, until my limb was ready to accept
the prosthetic leg. That's when I pulled out my handy life mantra. Are you
ready to hear it? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time
next year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's as
simple as that. I concentrated on this time next year. If I was patient, and
did what I had to do to move forward in my recovery, my life would be very
different this time next year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time
next week, and even this time next month, not much would be different. I'd
still be in the trenches, working hard to reach my goals. But this time next year?
A lot would be different</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And sure
enough, a year after my amputation surgery, I was on a mountain in Park City,
getting my first ski lesson. I never imagined I'd be able to share the slopes
with my ski loving children and my black slope loving husband. That deformed
foot just wouldn't work right in a ski boot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But in
January of 2005, I was on those slopes, making my way down the hill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time
next year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That wasn't
the first major life event I used my handy phrase. Back in the summer of 1996
we had a baby boy join our family who was not well. The doctors were baffled by
his symptoms and every day our newborn grew weaker and more dehydrated. As I
rocked away our days in that small, dark hospital room, waiting for our magic
answer, I repeated that phrase to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time
next year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time
next year I would either be chasing around a healthy little boy who had just
learned to walk and was trying his best to keep up with his big brother and
sister. Or this time next year we'd talk about the baby we buried and honor the
date we lost him by visiting a tiny gravestone. I had no idea which scenario I
would be living out, but I knew that by this time next year it would all be
resolved. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The pain I
was feeling, as I cradled my delicate newborn, would eventually have an end,
and life would go on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fortunately
our family was one of the lucky ones. By the summer of 1997 we celebrated
Isaac's first birthday and gave some extra thank you prayers to God, feeling so
lucky that we got to keep him. Today he towers over all of us, at six feet five
inches tall. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My this time next year boy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So this year
decide what you need to change. Really think about what needs to be different,
so that you can live a better life. And then dive in. Jump in with both feet
and don't expect changes to come instantly. Plug away and do what has to be
done. In the back of your mind you can chant my mantra. This time next year. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Actively
think about what your life could look like if you really stuck to your promise.
How much richer, less stressed, healthier, more peaceful could your life be, if
you just hung on until this time next year? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Make this
the year you do it. And don't stop imagining what your world could look like. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This time
next year.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-71791400903382872702013-10-11T17:17:00.003-04:002013-10-11T17:18:51.713-04:00Colorful October<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JE_47eAQOvg/UlhoohI79rI/AAAAAAAABjI/IlGztrZLjVM/s1600/DSC09232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JE_47eAQOvg/UlhoohI79rI/AAAAAAAABjI/IlGztrZLjVM/s320/DSC09232.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This is my
kitchen window today. The candle burns as a kind of remembrance. I pulled it
out from under the cabinet and lit its wick this morning because I can't make
the phone call I want to make.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I can't call my mom and wish her a happy
birthday. It's been almost two decades since I've been able to hear her voice squeal
out my name in that way only she could say it, as she picked up the phone and
realized it was her youngest daughter on the other end of the line. A call to
fuss over her, on her important day, that would so quickly turn into a phone
call about me. Almost immediately she'd be asking about my welfare, how my
hubby was doing, and of course those two </span><span style="line-height: 21px;">grand-babies</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> she loved to spoil. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We lost her in
1994, and with her passing, I lost my time with her. Instead of making plans to
go antique shopping with her, or check out the latest country music band at the
county fair, my interactions with her came down to a candle. A candle on my
kitchen window sill to remind me, and remind her in some remote way, that she
is not forgotten.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Today or any day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There are
two days a year that inspire me to pull out the candle under the sink. The
first one, August 30, is the day we said our last goodbyes, when it became
clear that her traumatized body would not recover from the massive stroke she'd
suffered while country dancing three nights before. And the second one falls on
October 11th, the day she joined the human race, way back in 1945, in a small
hospital in Waco, Texas. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It's sad and
ironic to me that I was never fully aware of her birthday until she was gone.
My mom was the kind who was skilled at diverting attention away from herself.
Her days were spent doing all the mundane chores required to keep a household
full of natural children, and foster children, alive and healthy. She made a
point to wave off our attempts to pat her on the back or celebrate her in any
way. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I remember being specifically told not to worry about commemorating my mom
and dad's anniversary. "It's a day for the two of us to celebrate, you kids
shouldn't worry about it", she'd tell me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Now that I'm
coming close to a 25th wedding anniversary myself I have to wonder if she did
her best to draw attention away from her own anniversary for the reasons she
quoted, or if it was just too painful to concentrate on a marriage that
suffered in the years of raising so many children. I couldn't see her sadness
and loneliness until I was a grown up myself, navigating the bumpy waters that
come with keeping a marriage alive. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In my high school
and college years I knew that my mom's birthday was in October, but if pressed
for the exact date, I'm afraid I might not have hit the mark very accurately.
Birthday parties were not a big deal in our house. With so many faces around
the table, and so little money in the bank account, birthdays generally meant a
cake with your name on it and a smattering of candles to extinguish. And that
was for the kids, the household demographic who actually cared about a
celebration. For the adults, a lack of fuss didn't seem to be a big deal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The college
years ended right as the married ones began for me. One baby came along, then
another followed quickly after. We were just figuring out how to relate to each
other, my parents and me, in this brave new world of being grownups at the same
time, when she was swiftly gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And her birth
date was forever engraved into a headstone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A headstone
I picked out and ordered, with babies balanced on my hip, to save my father the added grief of a task
that ushered him into an unexpected world of being a young widower. Standing in that small office, surrounded by
polished granite samples, and writing out the dates we wanted added to a stone,
seared them into my brain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So now that
date in August is a sad day for me. The second of a pair of dates etched on a
headstone. At the end of summer every year I think of her a bit more. I get
reflective, especially if I find myself alone in the car for any extended
amount of time. The memories re-surface, of all night hospital vigils, and hugs
from friends around a fresh mound of dirt. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then, two
months later, this other date rolls around. The opposite of her death date. Her
birth date has become something different with the passing years. As much as I
get reflective and sad on the date in August, I have begun to think about the
positive parts of her when the date in October shows up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She always
loved autumn. The leaves turning bright colors, the air temperature finally
easing some as the hot humid summers in Missouri ended. Time to start cooking
warm comforting dishes like her delicious homemade noodles. It was the simple things in life that made her
happy and Fall is full of simple pleasures. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When I see
the signs of a season she loved so much, my thoughts circle around to my mom.
Now that I live in Colorado, where we see fairly drastic season changes, having
our first snowfall just a few weeks ago when September was still in full swing,
the happy memories of her start sneaking into my thoughts not long after that
mournful date in August. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On a drive
home from Denver the other day the highway was hemmed in by bright yellow
leaves. As I wound my way towards home the air temperature dropped and I could
feel the Autumn season almost as distinctly as the jacket I'd thrown on that
chilly morning. And I felt my mom. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not as a
heaviness I've fought in years past. But in a presence. I took the time to let
the busyness of my day fall away and I let down my car window. I ceased the
rushing back toward home, only to jump into the next item on the list so I
could possibly be 'caught up' before I then headed off to work in the early
afternoon. I let myself relax and think
of my mom, and the millions of ways she helped me navigate my life for my first
quarter of a century. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Today is her
birthday. Even if she's not here to fight me as I try to celebrate it for her.
She is on my mind and in my heart. Her spirit was as bright as that little
candle that burns in my kitchen window. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Side note:
This year there is a bright yellow flower next to the candle. It's the flower I
was given at a heart breaking memorial service several weeks ago. As we
gathered to say our goodbyes to a baby named Alice, who only got six days on
the planet and will be remembered and loved by her parents for the rest of
their lives, we were all given a bright colored flower to take home. And
Alice's flower continues to stand tall and gorgeous in my kitchen window. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Days
keep passing and it refuses to wilt. Every day reminding me of how fragile life
is, and how lucky we are to be given even one day surrounded by the people we
love. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I like to
think that my mom's had her turn cradling that innocent baby named Alice. After
her own relatives welcomed Alice into their fold, I like to think my mom did
her magic with one more baby - partially because it's a baby who belongs to a
couple I care deeply about and partially because my mom was just great with
babies. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe, just
maybe, as my mom's candle burns in my window sill today, Alice's flower is
there to make sure I don't forget how precious life is, every single life.
Whether we get 6 days or 50 years, life is a gift. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-13046351769773660962013-09-30T11:42:00.001-04:002014-05-18T21:38:23.509-04:00Baby Alice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7m8n1kDRVDE/UkmbMuQgFJI/AAAAAAAABi0/E8jpm_ChxaA/s1600/DSC09032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7m8n1kDRVDE/UkmbMuQgFJI/AAAAAAAABi0/E8jpm_ChxaA/s320/DSC09032.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We all
gathered under a beautiful tree, its branches reaching over the large deck
that encircled it. White chairs sat in neat rows, filled with people who loved
her and loved her parents. A set of tables lined one side of the deck, covered with bulletin boards, handmade quilts and a baptism certificate. The pictures
that were pasted to the bulletin boards were gorgeous. They spelled out the six days that Alice was
on the planet. The six days that her parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles
got to love her, and kiss her, and tell her how much she was loved. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And then she
was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Her grandpa
said it best, as he spoke his truth at her memorial service. He started his
speech with "It's not fair". How right he was. He was so right, and
so in tune with what every person sitting under that tree was feeling that his
three words made new tears stream down my face. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">How can it
ever be fair that a little person as perfect as Alice not get to live a full,
long life? How is it fair that she was born into a large, loving family who
would have spoiled her rotten? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Her daddy is
a co-worker of mine. I'd never met her mama until that day, under the tree. But
what I know about them is enough to make me want to scream "IT'S NOT
FAIR" into the wind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He's the
director of children's programming at the large rec center where I work. He's
the perfect person for the job. He's retained just enough of his kid side to
fit in well with the little people who stream through our doors, but he's grown
up enough to do the boring stuff like schedule programs, create camps and
juggle a million activities at once. He's a shining light in our building,
always willing to drop what he's doing to help anyone who needs it. More than
once he's gotten me out of a computer jam, when I'm sure he had better things
to do. He is the king of safety and co-teaches our CPR classes every six
months. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He would be
a perfect dad. He was ready to be a perfect dad. He'd planned to take off the
whole month of December so he could stay home and throw himself into raising
his little girl. He painted her nursery the exact color her mama wanted and in
his free time dreamed about which Indie band she'd play in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">From what I
hear about her mama, there is no doubt baby Alice picked perfect parents. Her
mama works in the social services, helping troubled teens find their way.
Nothing Alice would have done in her teen years would have rattled her mama. No
matter which Indie band she joined. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But Alice
didn't stay long. Her little light joined the world on September 20th. She
spent several days hooked up to machines while the people who loved her
gathered around her incubator and prayed desperate prayers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And then the
tubes were removed and the incubator opened. Her mama and daddy got to lift her
out of the warm box and hold her in their arms. They got to dress her up the
tiny clothes they'd received from many baby showers. They got to whisper their
love for her into her tiny ears. She was passed from grandparent to
grandparent, so everyone could have a chance to feel her light before she left.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And the
pictures were taken. Pictures that lined one side of the deck that surrounded
the tree. The tree of life sheltered those of us who were remembering a special
little life. A life that enriched her parents hearts more than they could have
ever imagined, and then broke their hearts deeper than they knew was possible. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She was
surrounded by love, but she didn't get to stay long. Just long enough to say
hello and goodbye to the amazing parents she picked to bring her into the
world. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I know there
is a reason for every life and every death. But after walking away from that
service to celebrate her tiny life, I couldn't stop crying. No matter how much
you try to reason away why she left so young, it never adds up. I always come
back to <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It isn't
fair. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-64893144736913672272013-09-17T11:54:00.001-04:002013-09-17T11:54:56.189-04:00Letters From a Daughter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y6o_rPnMvno/Ujh6SOtDjYI/AAAAAAAABiY/bCd9tixFqS4/s1600/img045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y6o_rPnMvno/Ujh6SOtDjYI/AAAAAAAABiY/bCd9tixFqS4/s320/img045.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The anniversary of my mom's death passed just a few weeks ago. It's been so long now, that I've lived without her. Something deep in my soul carries around an ache for her, but the chaos of life does a good job of keeping those feelings off my daily radar.<br />
<br />
This year, about the same time I was making myself stop long enough to remember that day, almost two decades ago, that we buried her, I saw an interesting invitation online. Hope Edelman mentioned on her facebook page that she was issuing a new edition of her book on mother loss and was taking submissions of letters from motherless daughters.<br />
<br />
This is the same Hope Edelman who lost her own mother before she turned 20, and went on to write what I consider the bible of mother loss, called "Motherless Daughters". She was doing the book tour when my mom died and my sister bought three copies, one for each of our mom's suddenly motherless daughters. Hope's book made me weep, every time I read it, then re-read it through the years, but it also brought me comfort, that I was not alone in the unique lonesomeness I felt. Her follow up books about mother loss also deeply impacted my life and hold treasured spots on my personal book case.<br />
<br />
As soon as I saw Hope's call for submissions I knew I had to send her something. I have so many thoughts and feelings about losing my mother, and how it changed who I am and how I mother my own children, that I felt a deep urge to get something written for Hope, as soon as possible.<br />
<br />
My list for the afternoon went away. I immediately opened up a new Word document and started writing. An hour later, as I took a break from the office chair, I sat outside with my husband. Breathing fresh air helped clear my head and hearing just a bit of my husband's perspective on the subject helped me focus as I headed back to the computer desk.<br />
<br />
In the end I came up with two letters. Two very different letters, on different aspects of losing my mom. I sent them off to Hope and got back to my daily list.<br />
<br />
This morning she sent copies back to me with an email saying that parts of them may be printed in the new edition of her book called "Letters from Motherless Daughters". I could not have been more thrilled. I opened up the letters, to do a final edit on them before I officially submitted them, and was surprised by the tears that flowed once again.<br />
<br />Weeks after writing these letters, they still make me cry. Weeks after that date on the calendar that makes me think of the day I said goodbye to her forever, these words about losing her, and missing her, still stir something very deep.<br />
<br />
In the years that have passed I have seen that many women walk among us who understand this loss, this pain of living without a mother. You might never know it until you mention your own mother loss. Then suddenly their story emerges, and that familiar pain flashes from their eyes.<br />
<br />
I decided to post the two letters I wrote to Hope, thinking maybe there might be some other woman out there who needed to know she was not alone. It's a unique loss, and a unique pain. Since I believe 'we are all just here to help each other', I am posting these letters today. Just in case they can help someone else.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Dear Hope, August
31, 2013<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Yesterday
was the 19th anniversary of my mom's death. My niece, who was growing in my
sister's belly when we buried my mom, will turn 19 soon. It's sad to me, that I
can always know how old Rachel is, because it's the same number of years that
I've missed my mom. But it's a reality in my family. We had one life, then came
a funeral, and we were launched into another life. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>My mom died
of a stroke. She had just turned 50. She had just lost a lot of weight and was
starting to really enjoy her life. After years of taking care of everyone else,
she was finally having some fun. And then she was gone. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>I'd learned
about the 'stages of grief' in college and they made me very angry. I knew I'd
go through most of the stages but the acceptance part made me furious. It would
never be okay that she died. I'd never be able to accept it.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>After 19
years though, I kind of have a new view on the situation. She's still gone. As
much as I yearn for her, she'll never be back. And sometimes it feels like it
would be weird if she were back now. So much has changed.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>The lives of
my family - my siblings, my dad, my own little family - have moved on. The
lives that have been built in the past 19 years are probably different from
what might have happened if she'd been here. It's like a different matrix. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>After she
died the hub of our family was gone. We gathered that Thanksgiving and ate the
first turkey my dad had ever cooked, and talked about how much we all missed
her. But soon we stopped gathering. There was no hub keeping us together. My
dad was moving on, setting up his new life, and my siblings and I kept in touch
individually. We no longer felt like a
team. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>If it
weren't for that fact, I don't know if my husband would have taken the job that
required a move to Washington D.C. Since we didn't feel like the clan was a
unit anymore, he took the job. We've lived in five amazing states since then
and it helped his career immensely. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Nine years
ago I made a huge decision, to have my foot cut off. It was a foot that was
deformed most of my life and I finally decided that I wanted to cut it off and
start over. I'm not sure I could have made that decision if my mom were still
alive. She was so deeply entwined in the surgeries I had as a child, to correct
that foot, and always felt like it was her fault I'd been born with it at all.
It would have bothered her deeply to know I wanted to cut it off. I'm not sure
I could have moved past her feelings and had it done. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Because I
had the surgery, I live a pretty active life with my new bionic foot. I know
she'd be happy to see that, but the irony is, I don't know if I could have had
it done if she'd been here. My life matrix would have looked very different.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>There are
still times that I miss her deeply, but they come more in moments than full
days. When my tall 17 year old son walks
in the kitchen, a child born on my brother's birthday and has turned into his
Uncle's twin, I get a twinge in my heart, knowing she'll never know him. We'll
never sit on my back porch and marvel at how much Isaac has grown, and how much
he looks like his Uncle Dale did at that age. That hurts my heart. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>When I'm
walking a beautiful trail, surrounded by autumn leaves, feeling the cool autumn
breeze on my face, I miss her. Her birthday was in October and she loved the
fall season. Oranges and yellows make me think of her and most years I feel
like I'm enjoying her season for her, as I take time to recognize the beauty
around me. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>And in a way
I feel like she's still here sometimes. There's a song that came out around the time of her death,
that has lyrics close to what I'd imagine she would have said to us if she'd
had a chance to say good-bye. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I hope life treats you kind, and I
hope you have all you've dreamed of. And I wish you joy and happiness. But
above all this I wish you love. I will always love you. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>That song
has come on the radio at too many perfect times for it to be a coincidence. I
strongly feel it's her way of telling me she's still here, watching over me. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>On my
daughter's thirteenth birthday, the child who is named after my mom, I was
driving home from a mother/daughter night out with her, looking over at her as
she told me what she liked about the movie we'd seen, and a sadness fell over
me. I was sad that my mom couldn't see what an amazing young woman her namesake
had turned out to be. Then that song came on the radio. Tears flowed down my
face. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Once I was
leaned over my mother-in-law's shoulder as she flipped through pictures of the
latest adventures our family had been on, and suddenly I had a twinge of sorrow.
I felt a physical ache, that I'd never show this set of pictures to my own mom.
And at that moment, that song came on the radio behind me. I knew she was
there. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Would I
rather have her here, physically? Yes. But time moved on and life unfolded without
her here, and this is the reality I live with. I continue to raise my kids and
count my blessings that my dad found a wonderful woman to be their
step-grandmother. I have visions in my head, about what my mom would have been
like now, with these teen age grandchildren. But I can't let myself dwell on
them, or I get sad and forfeit the good life that has grown up around me. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Every
once in a while I hear that song. The tears flow, as they probably will until
the day I meet her again on the other side. But I find comfort in the fact
she's still watching over me. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Thank you
for your amazing books. They have
carried me (and my two sisters) through the past 19 years. I know it must
sometimes feel like a burden, that you are the token expert on mother loss, and
you can never 'get away from it', but you've done such an amazing thing for so
many women. You've given us a community of other women who understand. Take a
break from it when you need to, but know that every effort you make is like a
pond ripple moving across the water. Your influence continues on and on and on.
And those of us who are touched by it are very grateful. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Very
Sincerely, <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Judy Berna<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><b>And the second letter: </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Dear Hope, August
31, 2013<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>The day
after my mother died my four siblings and I were standing in circle in her
kitchen. My older sister had two books in her hand. One she handed to me, and
one she handed to our other sister. I read the title - "Motherless
Daughters" - as my fingers began to hold it, and I nearly dropped it on
the floor. At a gut level my body rejected the idea of ever relating to that
title. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>I had a
mother. I had a great mother. I had that mom who was everybody's mom. She raised
five of her own and many foster children too. She took in neighborhood kids
with special needs as their moms had trouble finding day cares that would take
them. I had that mom who was constantly giving to everyone else. She sensed the needs in hurting people
and instinctively knew how to meet them. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>There was no way I'd ever need a book
about motherless daughters. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>But then I
did. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>The phone call came. We huddled in hospital waiting rooms all weekend as
she fought to come back from a vicious stroke. And then we had to let her go.
Release forms were signed, and we huddled around her hospital bed, hoping she
could hear us tell her how much she'd be missed. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Then she was gone. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>And I was a
motherless daughter. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>A week after
we buried her my elderly neighbor caught me as I was walking out to get the
mail. "I heard about your loss. I'm so sorry. I lost my mom 42 years ago
and I still miss her every day." I appreciated her condolences but the
thought of living with that suffocating grief for the rest of my life honestly
scared me. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>At that
point I was holding back tears during the day, as I mothered our two toddlers, waiting
until they were asleep in bed before I allowed myself to hover in the shower,
weeping into my hands, for as long as the hot water would last. I craved a
place where I could go scream at the top of my lungs, "AHHHHHHH! IT'S NOT
FAIR!" <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>As much as
he wanted to help, my husband felt lost too, not knowing what to say as I cried
myself to sleep every night, telling him I felt like I'd been pushed off a huge
cliff, into an adulthood with no back up. The thought of my mother not being
there as I navigated through the rest of my life was just hard to even
comprehend. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Weeks
passed. Then months. Soon it was the first anniversary of my mom's death and I
couldn't believe I'd lived a whole year without talking to her, or hugging her.
My babies had a whole year of developmental changes she would never know about.
Most of the time I still couldn't believe she wasn't just 'out there',
somewhere. I still had dreams where we'd dig up her grave and it turned out she
was still alive, and so thankful we'd come to save her. It still wasn't real
that she was gone. Forever gone. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>That was 19
years ago. I recall it like it was yesterday because it was a huge turning
point in my life. I dog paddled through the grief long enough that I finally
wore myself out. Slowly I started to build the life that didn't include her. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Now I live
in a house with four old 'children'. Two of them she never knew. The two she
did know look very different at 20 and 21 than they did as the 1 and 2 year old
toddlers she tickled and hugged. It's a surreal thought, that she doesn't know
these kids who are so close to my heart. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>She loved
kids and she would have loved these kids. But that's not the way life turned
out. My husband tells me I grieved for the idea of what life should have been
like and I think he's right. I was mad that she was gone, but I was also so
very sad that the life I'd imagined was not going to happen. The years of her
spoiling them, encouraging them, telling them how much they reminded her of
their aunts and uncles at that age - gone. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Because life
doesn't stop just because your grieving heart feels like it has, years passed
by. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Those kids grew up. We moved to other states and made zillions of memories.
None of them including her. I missed her, but she was not a part of my life for
so long that she became a spirit that was with me, more than a mom who was
there to have my back. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>I try to
tell my kids stories about her, and remind them that she would have loved them
to their cores, but it's just words to them. She'll only be a real person to me
and my husband. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Now I feel
like I'm waiting for the day that I hear about a young neighbor losing her
mother and I will become the elderly woman, there to tell her that I lost my
own mom 42 years ago. And I still miss her. Every single day. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Thank you
for your books, Hope. They have been like life rafts as I've navigated the past
19 years. Through your own grief you accidentally ended up making several
million other motherless daughters feel not quite so alone. As I've told you
many times before, you are a gem.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Very
Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><i>Judy Berna<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-25075130767513241762013-08-23T18:21:00.000-04:002013-08-23T19:32:35.427-04:00Heirloom Table<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AYNCBhWUcyE/UhfeItiDcbI/AAAAAAAABhI/AXluPwxMgsc/s1600/DSC08613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AYNCBhWUcyE/UhfeItiDcbI/AAAAAAAABhI/AXluPwxMgsc/s320/DSC08613.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My kitchen
table is full of scratches. I'm not talking accidental fork holes or occasional
errant knife marks. I mean like the previous owner used this table for
crafting, and didn't bother using a cutting mat when using her Exacto knife. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Most of the
time it doesn't bother me. In fact, with a house full of teen agers, it helps
me relax, that they can't really damage it more than it already is. On special
occasions I can throw a table cloth over it. But most days it sits bare, its
deep flaws exposed for the world to see.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For most of
our 23 years of marriage we've had second hand tables. Except for a very
special seven year period, when I had a magnificent table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Back in 2003
we had just moved from Washington D.C. to Utah when I got the call that my
grandmother had died. She and I had been close, until age and a hard life had left her
to ride out her later years in a nursing home, unaware of those around her for
the most part. We packed up our van full of little ones and drove down to Texas
for the funeral. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Unexpectedly
we discovered we had received an inheritance. A nice little chunk of change
that was significant to our bare bones budget. We thought long and hard about
what my grandmother would want us to do with the money she left us. And a
kitchen table made the list. My grandmother loved good furniture, and she
adored my children. Knowing they'd sit around a beautiful table for each meal
would have definitely pleased her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'd always
dreamed of having a big wooden table that was surrounded by sturdy chairs. I
loved the idea of feeding my children around it every day, then some day
sitting across from their boyfriends and girlfriends...then their fiancés...then
their new spouses...then someday, in the very distant future, pulling a high
chair up to that same table to feed the grandbabies they'd bring home to me. I
dreamed of a heritage table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No other
piece of furniture in the house spoke to me like a good, solid kitchen table.
The place where every day meals were consumed. The place where homework was
spread out, and board games were won and lost. Dressed up with candles and
tablecloths for holidays, and filled with pumpkin scraps, birthday cake
sprinkles, and gingerbread house crumbs as the seasons changed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zVhZ0CtAEaA/UhfewmhRKjI/AAAAAAAABhg/-T1cJOTEBzU/s1600/download+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zVhZ0CtAEaA/UhfewmhRKjI/AAAAAAAABhg/-T1cJOTEBzU/s320/download+(1).jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When we
realized that our house full of hand me down and thrift store furniture would
be blessed with a new (real!) kitchen table we spent months hunting down just
the right set. We shopped at just about every furniture store in the Salt Lake
City valley, and even considered making our own if we could find a big old barn
door that we could cut down. But finally we found what we were looking for. It was big and sturdy... fancy yet hardy.
Ironically it appeared to us on the showroom floor of the furniture store owned
by the family we'd bought our Utah house from. That meant we got a pretty great
deal on it too, and decided to buy the eight chairs, instead of six, so there
would be extra seating for those future honored guests.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fp1ZFEherbQ/UhfeauY678I/AAAAAAAABhQ/xj62O0pYoKU/s1600/download+(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Fp1ZFEherbQ/UhfeauY678I/AAAAAAAABhQ/xj62O0pYoKU/s320/download+(5).jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Utah
house had the perfect spot for our new table. The large room attached to the
open kitchen was just screaming for a big family table. It arrived just in time
for my sister's visit from Texas that December, and we gathered around it with
her husband and three girls, to greet the new year together, building
gingerbread houses and playing board games. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Just as I'd
planned and dreamed about. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We used that
table every single day of our three years in Utah. Many more holidays were
celebrated there, many hundreds of homework assignments were completed there.
Science fair projects were constructed and Monopoly tournaments were battled
out into the wee hours of the morning. A good chunk of our memories in Utah,
the ones created inside the house, happened around that table.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7R9-EUIvLQQ/UhfejU5-wuI/AAAAAAAABhY/PD4kluJ9DkI/s1600/download+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7R9-EUIvLQQ/UhfejU5-wuI/AAAAAAAABhY/PD4kluJ9DkI/s320/download+(4).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And the
scenes were repeated when we packed it up and moved to New York. After intense
renovations of the old farm house we purchased, we created another big dining
room, just off the kitchen, where our big wooden table fit perfectly. More
holidays rolled by, more family memories were made. Every once in a while it
would get a small ding or an errant stray mark by a permanent marker, and instead
of being upset, I'd smile. Because I knew that in the years to come we'd see
those marks and tell the stories about how they got there. It was all part of
the family history making that first put a yearning in my heart for a good,
hearty family table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ub4W61pGBrA/Uhfe7QVAF5I/AAAAAAAABho/VLg0fZVjYtc/s1600/download+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ub4W61pGBrA/Uhfe7QVAF5I/AAAAAAAABho/VLg0fZVjYtc/s320/download+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After five
wonderful years in New York, we found out our next move was taking us to Colorado.
There was no doubt that table would come with us. It was practically a part of
our family.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But this
move didn't go as smoothly as the ones in years past. We did everything right -
fixed up the house perfectly, put half
our belongings into storage to make the house look bigger and cleaner, got a
good appraisal before putting it on the market - but the market seemed to tank
the exact day the For Sale sign was pushed into the front yard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Month after
month we dropped the price, seeing all of our tens of thousands of dollars of
equity dropping away with it. We went past our 'give away' price after four
months. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Four months after that we were starting to get desperate. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All the money
we'd accumulated for decades, in every move, that was rolled over to the next house,
was slowly disappearing. In the end it got ugly. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We were weeks away from having
to just walk away from it and let it go to foreclosure. A heart breaking
decision, as we'd spent five years fixing just about everything in that house,
down to replacing every single appliance. It was in pristine condition. It just
didn't have any buyers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then we got
one offer. Even though the price they offered was twenty thousand below what
we'd paid for it, before we put tens of thousands into it, and spent all of our
free time providing sweat equity to fix it up, we had to consider their offer.
It would mean someone would move in and enjoy our house. It meant it would not
sit vacant and deteriorate as it went through the foreclosure procedures. It
meant we could live with the fact we hadn't just walked away from this house we
created and loved. We could know it was being loved again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then, as if
it couldn't hurt any more, the day the moving guys were putting our belongings
into the moving truck, the call came. The new buyers were considering dropping
their offer. One of the conditions to following through with their offer was
that they wanted a few pieces of our furniture. And since most of our furniture
was old and worn out, of course the
piece they were talking about was my kitchen table. My heirloom table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dUvvJeWiRCw/UhffLi8hjPI/AAAAAAAABhw/nwnoGRHXg04/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dUvvJeWiRCw/UhffLi8hjPI/AAAAAAAABhw/nwnoGRHXg04/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I stood in
that long driveway, watching work men haul boxes into the moving truck, and
willed myself not to cry. With the realtor in my ear, asking if we were willing
to honor the buyer's request, I took a deep breath. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was truly
down to deciding whether I got to keep the table that was near and dear to my
heart, and let our house go to foreclosure, or let it all go to the new buyers and
walk away. There was really only one
choice to make. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The moving
men dug out the three dining chairs that they'd already packed deep in the
bowels of the moving truck and placed them back in our old dining room, right
next to my beautiful wood table. And they all stayed behind when that truck
drove away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once we
found a rental house in Colorado (all the down payment money to buy a house was
lost with that house sale) we hunted around in the thrift stores and got
another kitchen table. It's sturdy and it came with six sturdy chairs. It's not
my first pick, but the price was right and sometimes in life you just have to
move on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For a short
time I let myself grieve for that table. I was fully aware that, with the huge
financial hit we took on that New York house, the budget for a new heirloom
table would be nonexistent for years to come. I was also very aware that, at
this point, with two of our 'kids' now being young adults, the window of time
for creating kid memories around that table had just about closed for half of
my children. It was time to mentally move on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My Colorado
thrift store table works just fine. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We've had some memorable meals around it
already. We've hosted friends, old and new, around it. I fed my oldest son a
few last meals before he headed off to his grown up life in the military, and
I'll feed him around it once again, when he visits us during the holidays. The
table itself, as scratched as it is, is not the reason I smile when I'm looking
at his face while we share meals there. The meals don't necessarily taste
better or worse because of the quality of table they are served off of. The
people who surround the table are what matter to me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6JyfIFcrc8s/Uhffbe_oM9I/AAAAAAAABh4/aTSxExL8D1A/s1600/download+(6).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6JyfIFcrc8s/Uhffbe_oM9I/AAAAAAAABh4/aTSxExL8D1A/s320/download+(6).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It is
probably a blessing that my chickens started their flights from my nest after I
lost my precious table. It has helped me to realize what's important, truly
important. A house full of beautiful things, leather couches and heirloom
tables, is not what makes a home happy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">People I
love walking through the door, and throwing their things across whatever table
happens to sit in the dining room, is what makes me happy. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Seeing those faces I
love and miss so deeply, and watching those bodies sink into my sturdy thrift
store chairs as they begin to open up to me about their latest adventures is
what really matters. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is a
part of my heart that will always long for that table I left behind in New
York. We had built, so steadily through the years, the memories that were
leading us to my dream of an heirloom table. But life happens. And sometimes
it's necessary to say goodbye to things you loved. It's all a part of the
journey. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I'm pretty sure my grandmother would understand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-8081405923607075052013-08-04T12:01:00.003-04:002013-08-04T12:01:26.912-04:00What a Decade Has Done For This Amputee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BmPdaTgQXb0/Uf5zub0WAgI/AAAAAAAABfo/iG_JQ4M4EKs/s1600/DSC08338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BmPdaTgQXb0/Uf5zub0WAgI/AAAAAAAABfo/iG_JQ4M4EKs/s320/DSC08338.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Ten years
ago I was craving information. I had been pondering the idea of having my
deformed foot cut off and getting a prosthetic limb for a couple of decades
already, but information was hard to come by on such a specific topic. There
were no books in the library, about amputation or the lives of amputees. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those were
the days before the internet had filled out. It was mostly full of dial up
email communications and basic websites set up by forward thinking companies,
for advertisement purposes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, a
decade ago, things started to change. We got our first high(er) speed internet
service and I was hooked. Suddenly I could dissect the extensive information
that the <a href="http://www.amputee-coalition.org/">ACA</a> (Amputee Coalition of America) had posted online. I could read
stories about amputees and find pictures of the newest prosthetic limbs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This led me
to websites like Hanger, a major prosthetic provider. On their sites I found
more extensive pictures about the hardware I'd be wearing if I made this
choice. I visited several Hanger local offices, after being encouraged by what
I saw online, and held in my hand the metal foot that might give me more
mobility. </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Od4WGMW0xJ0/Uf50nUgtRlI/AAAAAAAABf4/BjutrnYc2PU/s1600/DSC07975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Od4WGMW0xJ0/Uf50nUgtRlI/AAAAAAAABf4/BjutrnYc2PU/s320/DSC07975.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">One night I
stumbled upon a story on the <a href="http://www.amputee-coalition.org/">ACA </a>website about a man who had chosen to have his
foot cut off. He'd had a bad ankle injury that would never heal and he decided
a prosthetic foot would give him a better chance at an active life. The 25 year
old was now walking beaches with his wife, and learning how to run.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was
astonished. Until that moment I had never heard of another person who would
choose to have their foot amputated. This guy had made the decision I had
thought about for years, and he wasn't crazy. In fact, he got a better life
afterward. Finding his story on the internet put fuel on my fire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A year later
I had my surgery. And now, almost ten years later, I'm still enjoying a newer
version of that same metal foot I held in my hand a decade ago. At the time of
my surgery I knew that if prosthetic technology never advanced one bit in the
years to come, I'd be happy with where it was in 2004. But it has advanced. In
so many exciting ways. Today I wear a foot that wasn't even designed five years
ago. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The running
(Cheetah) legs that you see on Paralymic athletes was just being tested in
2004. I now have amputee friends, casual athletes, who use them for their daily
runs. There are mechanical knees and ankles that can memorize your gait and
replicate it, to make a more natural walking pattern. If you enjoy a hobby,
there are amazing options in attachments you can attach to the end of your
artificial limb. The world of prosthetic options has exploded and will continue
to grow in the years to come.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1wZu3bmaghI/Uf52LlMj62I/AAAAAAAABgI/yxpIjDsqUlE/s1600/DSC07968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1wZu3bmaghI/Uf52LlMj62I/AAAAAAAABgI/yxpIjDsqUlE/s320/DSC07968.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">But it's not
just the hardware that has changed. Attitudes have changed. When I was a kid,
an amputee was a person who most likely used a wheelchair. They were old men
who had been in a war and come home with a few less limbs. They were not people
we saw very often and they were most certainly not people who would jog around
our neighborhoods or show up on our TV screens.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I visit many
amputee internet boards. I hear stories about what it was like to be an amputee
before 2004. I've read books about
people my age, who grew up with wooden legs...literally legs made of wood. The
world was a different place for those amputees, and not just in the hardware
they strapped on every morning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the ten
years since I've joined their club, public attitudes have changed. I don't
hesitate to wear shorts in public. I've never had a negative comment about my
prosthetic leg. In fact, I've had the opposite reaction. People are fascinated
by my hardware. Little children might squat behind me in the grocery store line
(a common occurrence), but it's not because they see me as a cripple. It's
because they want to figure out how my metal ankle works. They want to see my
'robot' leg. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My
co-workers are not afraid to ask about my limb, and listen with interest as I
tell them how much it's changed my life for the better. No one sees me as 'less
than'. They see me as differently abled.</span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zoxfml1qOBw/Uf52f5oREvI/AAAAAAAABgQ/FiH1zrUTiFc/s1600/DSC08261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zoxfml1qOBw/Uf52f5oREvI/AAAAAAAABgQ/FiH1zrUTiFc/s320/DSC08261.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will
forever be grateful that the climate of acceptance has washed over the amputee
community in the years since I made my difficult choice. I'm grateful that,
with new options in hardware, younger amputees have come out of hiding and
bravely mixed in with the public, demonstrating how we are just normal people
who happen to get around on metal limbs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm grateful
for the adaptive athletic organizations that have popped up in the last decade,
and encouraged amputees to get off the couch and get back to their active lives.
I'm grateful for amputee support sites, which have been flooded with new
members once the internet caught up to our needs. Interacting with other active
amputees inspired those who thought they were alone in their journey. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruNzYP8mCRI/Uf52q5oVVWI/AAAAAAAABgY/WOyfNvU2QLk/s1600/DSC08204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruNzYP8mCRI/Uf52q5oVVWI/AAAAAAAABgY/WOyfNvU2QLk/s320/DSC08204.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tthe news about newly injured young military folks, who were getting
their lives back after amputations, and videos showing little kids using new
prosthetics to run across the playground, changed people's attitudes. The more they
saw how normal an amputee is, the more amputees were accepted back into the
able bodied world.</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everyone has
their own opinion about the court case surrounding one of the most famous
amputee athletes. Whether or not Oscar Pistorius is found guilty of a terrible
crime, he has changed the world of amputee perception. By qualifying to run, on
his two prosthetic legs, in the able bodied Olympics, he became a symbol to all
amputees, especially amputee children, of what could be accomplished on metal
legs. He changed how the world looks at us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm still
astonished when I see amputees represented positively on television. Both <a href="http://www.amypurdy.com/">AmyPurdy</a> and <a href="http://www.alwaystri.com/">Sarah Reinertsen</a> competed in the Amazing Race. <a href="http://chadcrittenden.com/">Chad Crittenden</a> held
his own on Survivor. A main character on Grey's Anatomy is an amputee. Luke, a
character on the popular sitcom Modern Family, casually tells his sister that
it wouldn't be a big deal if he lost his leg, because then he could get one of
those 'cool running legs'. A revealing episode of House informed us that Dr.
House, who limps through the series with a bad leg, wishes he'd had his leg
amputated when he'd has his medical crisis. He wishes he'd had the courage to
amputate. That's a new way of thinking and I'm thrilled to see it on my TV. </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My
'ampuversary' is a few months away. On January 12, 2004, I will celebrate a
decade of new mobility. A decade is a long time. Long enough for me to feel
totally comfortable in my amputee life. It quickly became a non issue in our
house. My four children have grown up seeing their mom do everything else other
mommies do and the fact I click on a leg in the morning seems very normal to
them. Their friends have cycled through the house, in the three different
states we've lived in the past ten years, and not one of them saw my amputee
status as anything more than fascinating. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Attitudes
have changed and this new generation is growing up with new ideas. In the next
decade amputees will continue to be out there, mixed into the able bodied
world. We no longer hide behind long pants or stay home when adventure calls.
I'll celebrate my anniversary with a grateful heart. I'm so incredibly grateful
to be a part of a community of amazing people, and grateful I get to be a part
of an exciting new world. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253909161135859745.post-43583371139153569592013-07-30T18:55:00.000-04:002013-07-30T18:55:57.356-04:00Rediscovering Utah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p5utkoL-iAU/UfhCllta7HI/AAAAAAAABfI/oFRTKfbXwLs/s1600/DSC08066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p5utkoL-iAU/UfhCllta7HI/AAAAAAAABfI/oFRTKfbXwLs/s320/DSC08066.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Say the word
'Utah' and it brings up different images to different people. Some will think
of the world famous powdery snow that makes Utah a top skiing destination. Red
rock arches will come to mind for others. Some will think of the miles and
miles of salt flats that are used to race some of the fastest cars in the
world. And, of course, there will always be the lingering stereo types of
families with multiple wives because of the concentrated presence of the Mormon
church. But when I think of Utah, I think of people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We were
living in Washington D.C. back in 2003, when we found out hubby's job would be
taking us to that Western state. The internet was not old enough to give us
many visuals but we found a few books in the local library and decided that if
this new state were half as beautiful as it seemed to be, we were game for the
cross country relocation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When we
arrived, on a sunny day in August of 2003, Park City was one of the first towns
we experienced. It's just as stunning as it had been represented to us in Hollywood
movies. Then we made our way down to Salt Lake City, rounding that curve in the
highway as it meanders down the mountain and weaves into the valley, we were
once again left breathless at our good fortune, to be moving to such a visually
stunning location. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Within weeks
we were settled into a comfortable house just west of Salt Lake City, in a town
called Stansbury. Mountains surrounded the valley we lived in, and the immense
great Salt Lake bordered our views to the north. As we enjoyed the beauty all
around us we had no idea that it wasn't physical attributes that would make us
fall in love with Utah completely. It would be the people we met and had
relationships with that would seal the deal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For three
years we called Utah home. We grew to know and love a wide circle of new
friends, who quickly turned into the kind of people who are lifetime friends.
When it was time to move on, this time to New York, it was a gut wrenching
goodbye. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now we're
living in the West once again. This time we made it only as far as Colorado.
We've finally settled in enough that we had the time to head over to our old
stomping grounds, and catch up with our old Utah friends. It's been seven years
since we'd been there. Seven years since we'd sat around fire pits late into
the night, sharing laughs and heart felt life stories. We were ready to hug
those familiar friends and catch up on all that has happened in the years we've
been gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It all went
by way too quickly, as truly special trips always do. I took a million pictures
and we laughed a million laughs. I don't think I stopped smiling all weekend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was
surreal to see their kids. I know my kids have grown, but it's easy to forget
that theirs have too. I've been the one buying all those groceries, as our 17
year old grew to be six and a half feet tall. He was a fourth grader when we
left Utah. Those friends remember him as being a skinny little boy who loved to
ride a scooter down the street. He's now a high schooler, taller than most of
his teachers, with a set of car keys in his pocket. It's strange for them to
see this 'new' kid, as he ducks his head to get through their front door frame.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But it's
just as strange for me to see their baby girl, who is now at the end of her
elementary school years. She was still gestating in her mama's belly when I
first 'met' her. Since her mama lived right across the street from me, and
became one of my favorite people on the planet, I knew this baby girl from the
day she was born. My school aged kids spent our hanging out times hauling her
around on their hips. Even my boys passed her around, like she was our mascot
baby. She took her first steps on the sidewalk between our houses, toddling
from the hands of my middle school daughter, to her mama's waiting arms. This
baby girl wasn't supposed to grow up so fast. But there she was, that same
bright smile, but this time on an older kid's body. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But, as it
always is with those magical lifetime friends, the second the front door
opened, we were back to being just 'us'. We were the same couples we'd been on
the day we pulled out of our driveway, headed off to New York. They were the
same hilarious, fun, true blue friends we'd left behind. It was as if seven
years had not even passed. If you didn't let yourself look at the tall kids who
surrounded us, it would be easy to believe it had only been a few weeks since
we'd last seen each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before
nightfall the fire pit had been made. The kids had easily mingled into a pack
again and entertained themselves without any adult guidance for the rest of the
night. It was like stepping into a time machine, looking across the crackling
fire at those familiar faces I'd missed so much. The conversation flowed
easily, as we once again bonded over parenting stories, this time not so much
revolving around potty training and elementary school science fairs, but more
focused on worries about the dating lives of high schoolers and the woes of
empty nests. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The next day
we reluctantly left that driveway once again, this time promising to be back in
much less than seven years. We headed back to our old street, looked at our old
house, and each shared our most vivid memories. Since my youngest was a
preschooler when we moved away from Utah, we re-introduced him to places that
he'd spent his days. The skate park where he rode his little red bike we called
'the clown bike'. The lake house where he'd hunted for Easter eggs. The church
building where he'd been surrounded by people who loved and encouraged him. The endless sidewalks
he'd traveled with big brothers, on scooters and bikes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">We ended up
at another house, this one still occupied by another family we grew to love
deeply. Their kids are the ages of our older children, so they are parenting
young adults now too. The kids we remember were still navigating high school
hallways. Through the magic of facebook I've kept in touch with some of these
new adult/kids and it was great to hug them in person, see those smiles I remembered
so well. We spent the afternoon catching up with them. When it was time to
leave, our kids were begging us to stay 'just a little longer'. It's easy to
see why this family meant so much to us. They fit us in such a nice way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We will go
back. Now that we're more settled in our new home state of Colorado, and we
were reminded that it's only a 8 hour drive to get to our old stomping grounds,
we will go back. I'm thrilled that my children will have the chance to rekindle
special friendships. For adults it's easier to step back into quality
relationships from the past. Sometimes it's not so easy for kids, who left the
old place as not fully developed people. But it's nice to see they still fit
with our old friends. And they will stop being referred to as 'those people we
used to know in Utah' and now, once again, be referred to as 'our friends, the
Motts.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Life is
short and life is long. Seven years can change a lot. Children become totally
different people in seven years. But seven years is not too long. It's not long
enough to let us forget how nice it is to be surrounded by good people. It's
long enough to make us realize just how much a good friendship is worth. And
just how deep a friendship can run. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Just One Foothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14963890364029323014noreply@blogger.com0