Splitting Heirs

This blog is dedicated to my sister, Kim, who to my knowledge, has NEVER known how truly beautiful she is.

Growing up I had one sister, older who had the same blond hair and blue eyes. She has a combination of my parents much like I do, only organized in a different way. Everyone, who had ever seen her, said she was beautiful. Kim had a way of lighting up a room when she entered. I on the other hand stumbled in, tripped over the carpet and plopped into my seat. Kim had a sort of grace about her, while I had, well, the opposite of that. My father innocently said we were Beauty and the Beast. I think, by the introduction you can discern who was who. While my sister had beauty, brains and athleticism, I had sheer will and brawn. It is not to say I wasn't attractive in my own right, but we were so very different, it put people in the unique position of trying to "figure" us out. If she were the beauty, then I must be something different. I got the message very early on in my life that my destiny was not to be the girlie-girl of the family.
Frequently, at school, teachers would look at the two of us and tell me I should try and be as smart as my sister. Why didn't I dress nice like Kim or why did I have to be so surly? The answer, which I learned, thanks to modern day therapy, came to me much later in life. Had I known why I was the way I was back then, I would have had a better appreciation for my sister and all of her many talents instead of running the opposite way as fast and hard as I could.
Mother, as I call her when she has done something I totally disagree with, dressed as identical twins whenever we were out in public. Being young and quite literally small minded, I thought it was to show how beautiful Kim was and how "different" I was. In my head the question became, "See? Even if they are dressed exactly alike, I can't get the little one to look as good, or behave as well."
Mom told me later the actual reason she did it was so that if one of us went missing she could point to the other and say, "She looks like that." Years later I used the idea with my own kids, dressing them in the same color, just in case.
Teachers would compare Kim and my abilities in school and be utterly disappointed that I was not the same kind of student. Kim got "A's" while I floundered getting "C's". I was average, and since Kim was obviously above average, it translated to many that I was less. I got called lazy, stupid, and eventually learning disabled. I was labeled as broken because my sister had proved, two years prior to my arrival at that particular grade, that my family had intelligence.
Boys dated me to get to my sister. This part of growing up really hurt the most. My self esteem took a direct blow to my heart when this happened. It also pushed me to date guys that were "bad boys" who took no interest in my sister or her good grades and cheer leading ways.
Most folks didn't realize that they were putting a wedge between my sister and I. They were, in fact, splitting heirs.
When high school rolled around for us, Kim went off to Panama to study for the year and I went on about the business of trying to figure out exactly who I was. As days flew by I discovered I was the band and choir geek. I love music and performing on stage was exciting for me. I discovered that not only was I never supposed to be a cheer leader, but I was destined to be a supporting player on the field, blowing the fight song during every good play. I also found out I was smart. I didn't have the kind of intelligence that Kim had, but I was smart in my own right. It had been there all along, but I had been so preoccupied with listening to what others had to say, I had stopped thinking for myself.
A million and a half years later, I was on the phone with my sister listening to her, I realized she never thought she was the Heir and I was the Spare. She had thought I was more comfortable in my skin, than she had ever been. She spoke of longing to have things I had. She had felt that she were forced to be good all the time, while I was the wild child. I couldn't help but feel very sorry for us, both mired in others expectations, unconsciously competing, while running away from the other at the same time. I will qualify that "others" did not include my parents.
When we were young, we competed in The Cherry Blossom Queen contest. Kim got first runner up. I didn't even place. I was so extraordinarily bad at the beauty contest thing, people didn't realize we were related. Once again we were pitted against each other in direct competition, but this time it was different. I knew that I had a snowballs chance in Texas of ever winning. I also knew Kim had a great chance of taking home the prize. This was her thing, where she could excel and I would flounder. If they had had a musical to audition for, I was a shoe in, but standing gracefully, smiling, while talking intelligently was not my gig. It was the first time I didn't care that she won and I flopped.
Kim, to this day, does not recognize what others see in her. She still doesn't see the light that comes from her face shooting out of her eyes, allowing for a glow when she enters the room. She doesn't understand when people feel daunted by her photogenic mind, impressive intelligence and graceful way she uses her hands to wave about as she talks to make her point. But we all, who know her, get it. I don't compete with Kim anymore. I haven't in years. There is no need to prove to others that I am equal to my older sibling. We are still very much Beauty and the Beast. I have a fierce a personality and nobody ever questions where I stand on things. Kim still owns her quiet beauty, even if she is totally unaware. We are both smart, quick, and affable.
Although, I do think I am funnier. It's my over compensation for not getting to wear a Cherry Blossom crown.

Closing the Book

This year has been really significant for me. Yes, we moved and that always has some significance, but there are much bigger issues I have been facing this year.
Back when I was a single mother, I prayed for the strength to reach my forty seventh birthday. I had neither time nor money, so all I truly wanted was to not kill or maim any of us, keeping us safe until the kids were grown, which happened to be right after I turned forty seven. I didn't know back then I would be happily married to Michael. I didn't know we would move 1200 miles away from everything we had ever known. I didn't know I would be writing full time from home, an extravagance by any means, for a woman who didn't have a college education, let alone any experience writing professionally. Back then I had simple wants, needs and wishes. My only real wish was to be an O.K. mother, so the kids would have the future they deserved. Danny was already gone by the time I started wishing to survive until I turned forty seven. Having left me alone with the singular responsibility of raising our kids, I felt there had been a cruel joke played on me and the kids. I never envisioned myself as doing a good job, I always thought surviving was the only priority.
Once Michael came on board, I then saw a different goal, of sorts. I had been married to Danny for nine years. By year seven, things had really started to fall apart. We were growing apart and had little tolerance for the very things we had thought endearing, when we first met. I had worried once Michael and I married that we might fall victim to the same failure. What if I hadn't learned all that I was supposed to? What if I had worse habits than before that would lead to the demise of another marriage, showing the world once and for all, that I was not capable of long term commitment? I had thought when I was young, I was not the marrying kind? My family and I had treated it as a joke, even putting my infamous quote on my engagement cake at Danny's and my party, "I am never getting married". What if never getting married were the best decision I had ever made and doing anything different would ruin Michael's life? The new goal was to be married to Michael longer than I had been married to Danny. That goal was ironically met in August of this year, when the sixteenth rolled around and I had officially been married to Michael longer than I had been married before. We celebrated our ninth anniversary in June; by August we had been married nine years and two months. In my pea sized brain, all I could think of was "Whew!" So I can be married to someone without wrecking things. I am capable of loving someone, long term, whom I didn't give birth to. The relief I felt from having reached my imaginary goal which was quite real to me.
The last goal or page turner for me was this month. It happened yesterday, in a quiet, unassuming kind of way. Yesterday was the anniversary of Danny's death. It has been thirteen years since he passed away. It seems like forever, yet I can recall every detail of the day I got the call. I remember that day as if it were seared into my brain like a cattle brand. Most years, I try hard not to think about it. The kids handle it different every time it rolls around. Some years we cry together, some years they go to their separate corners and mourn, and some years we act as if it never happened. Yesterday was a combination of all those things. I thought early in the day, the page on Danny had been turned for me. Yesterday marked for me the time frame where he has been dead longer than he was alive for me. I knew and loved him a shorter time than I had grieved his demise. Maybe now, finally, I can give both he and I some rest. I forgave all of his indiscretions long ago, but I still had me firmly on the hook for all the wrong I had committed. I dangle myself high in the air, watching as I continued to writhe in the pain I had caused us both. Yesterday was my goal day to let myself get off the emotional steel barb and just get on with my life. I will always love him, forever grateful for the kids and the way they have his traits, genetics and sarcastic wit. I will remember him with kindness, forgiveness and love for the rest of my days, but I will live the remainder of my life focused firmly in the here and now. It has taken all thirteen years to unwrap my fingers from the guilt, shame, mourning and regret. But now I feel the need to step out of the shadow of his death and show my gratitude at having survived this long by living fully, giving freely and loving hard.
I did not change over night. I didn't evolve in a month long reality show. It has taken years to unravel my mistakes, missteps and ego driven misconceptions of who I thought I was. This year was my pay day for years of work, finding out what my purpose was, who I should hitch my wagon to, and where my heart should go next. Every day my first thought is, "Stay in today, tomorrow will take care of itself. If I live in every moment offered, then I will have no regret." I wish I had had loftier goals for myself than survival, but the truth is I did survive, the kids survived and Michael assure me that he isn't going anywhere without me.
Every book has an end, a last page that we re-read to make the words resonate. This is the last page of the book of Daniel for me. I will cherish every word spoken and inferred, I will remember him with warmth, laughter and love, but I will not be reopening chapters that have long outlived their usefulness anymore. I will finally let both of us off the hook.

It All Started While I Was Doing the Dishes

I was doing the dishes this morning from a particularly sticky meal from last night. Yes, I waited until this morning to get my dishes done. I was scrubbing my very well used pans, scraping last night's honey glazed roasted chicken out of them when something occurred to me.
A couple of days ago I was on the phone talking to a dear friend I have recently reconnected with. She asked me about book number two and the title. We spoke for a few more minutes and then she asked me something no one else has asked me. "How do you come with the stories that make it into the book?" I thought for a minute and said this, much to my own surprise, "I think of all the times I have been influenced or changed by someone and the effect of that change. I have been fairly lucky when I think back on things."
There it was, the reason for the book, the future books and all the stories I tell. To be perfectly honest, I have never thought to ask myself that question. I had written and told stories since I was able to talk. I was that kid that, once I started talking, no one could shut me up. Believe me when I tell you, many have tried, and no one has succeeded to date. Life has always been a giant jigsaw puzzle to me. I felt compelled to take individual pieces, gazing thoughtfully at each one, trying to figure out what my big picture was going to be.
O.K., now back to the dishes. As I was scrubbing, I noticed how incredibly black, dinged and heavily used my pans are. No amount of scrubbing was going to get all the stains, dents and scratches to go away. I stress cook, by which I take all of my anxiety and throw it directly into a pot, or on a pan in order to concoct something we as a family can devour, forever making all my problems disappear. Alright, it isn't that easy, but the action of cooking soothes my savage breast. It is a win/win situation in my household. Rather than take all my frustration out on the kids, Mike or the dogs, I cook like a maniac, immersing myself in something completely unrelated to whatever problem I am dealing with. I relieve my stress, they don't get chased around being sliced and diced with my forked tongue, and everybody has good food to eat.
Years ago when I was first learning to cook, I thought I was supposed to make sure the pans I used looked brand new, as if I had never cooked anything in them before. I used every kind of scouring powder, dish soap, steel wool and scrubbing sponge I could find. I used hard bristle brushes, ice picks and wash cloths, as I stood over the sink scrubbing, scraping and shining my pans back to their original color and shape. One day I had had a friend over for a meal. She offered to help with the dishes. I began my ritual sweating, scrubbing and swearing as I tried desperately to get any reminder of the previous meal off my pans.
"Kellie, honey, you are working too hard at this. You are not supposed to scrape the discoloring off the pans."
"I'm not?" I looked at her as if she were completely mad.
"No, you need the pans to retain some of their use so they get seasoned. It will help the food from sticking later on. It takes some women years to season their pans the way they want."
"What? Are you serious? I have been washing off what others practice for years to get? Noooooo, that can't be! Why would they want dirty dishes?"
"Look, the discoloration, is supposed to be there so your food won't stick. Wash off the big mess, yes, but don't polish it back to it's original shape. You use your pans, so it's perfectly acceptable for them to look used."
After that moment I never scrubbed my pots and pans back to their original shine again. I thought of all the wasted hours I had spent scrubbing and toiling over pans, that others would have coveted for their darkened seasoned state. My pots and pans look like they have been from a war zone. Twenty-five years of use has left all the dings, dents and blackened areas they can hold. And for the record, she was right; all of my pans work better now than they did when they were new. My food doesn't stick, things taste better and I spend a lot less time in the kitchen hating the cookware.
Here comes the big epiphany, I am like my pans. I have dents, dings and usage marked all over me. There are scars from softball games, broken relationships and child birth scribbled all over this body and heart of mine. Past mistakes, missteps and failures have softened my edges, making me less judgmental of others when they too fall. I have dark spots from days in the sun, as I ran around soaking in all the joy from the day. I have pale spots marking the times I went into hiding, protecting me and my kids from hurt. Yes, Virginia, you and your pots are supposed to look used. Your face is supposed to bare wrinkles, your hair is supposed to gray, your body is supposed to sag. All the kings horses and all the kings men do not have enough botox to remove all the life you have lived. You are supposed to have lived enough, loved enough to become well seasoned.
With the dishes done, the kitchen cleaned up and the blog now written, I have but one choice, to spend the remainder of my day adding new dents to my very spicy life.

Where Were You September 12, 2001?

I believe everybody remembers where they were September 11, 2001. I know, I do. I was at the doctor's office having a follow up visit after having my ACL replaced. I remember watching Good Morning America after the first plane hit the north tower. I immediately called my airline guy, Mike, to find out what they thought. "Kellie, that was no small plane. It would have been nearly impossible for an accident like that to happen with a jet." Right then and there I knew we had been attacked.
I got off the phone and looked at the guy sitting next to me. I watched his face and recognized the look of horror, I knew was on my own. "We have been attacked. This was on purpose," I said in a low voice to him. He looked at me, eye to eye, and replied with fear in his face,"I know..." and then trailed off to a whisper. The others in the office were adamant that we didn't know what we were talking about; the other plane circled around and in front of the world, crashed into the south tower. In that moment, no one in that office felt safe anymore.
I have been relatively obsessed with 9/11 stories. I watch the History channel as if it were an assignment. I am fascinated by the humanity, rather than the inhumanity that took place that day. As much research as I have done, and trust me, I could write a thesis, it is the day after that truly has me riveted. In one instant we were altered as a country, and in the same instant we circled the wagons faster than a swarm of flies to a bucket of pooh. Americans flags were on back order, people were throwing their hard earned money as fast as they could to those who needed it, trucks with supplies and man power were being loaded and sent to New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington D.C., the military was flying the skies doing drills, at the ready to protect our sovereign nation. All these things were happening the very next day, and in some cases the very same day. I sat back in awe of the country and the people in it and their reaction. Folks gathered to help in any way they could, spending time, money and energy trying to do their very best. We sat and watched our TV's to see what to do next, what was happening and how we could help. For that September 12th I still feel such gratitude, such humility for my country and their want to be the kindest, most generous nation in the world.
For whatever your memory is for September 11, 2001, know that what you did on September 12th is what counted in ways there are truly no words for. Whether you checked on an elderly neighbor, gathered money and supplies for those in need, or volunteered to pack up and go to ground zero yourself, you proved why we live in a great country. The reaction to terrorism by this country, was to act in courage, generosity and kindness.
Today, I went out this morning and swept pine needles off my driveway. I looked up to the perfect blue sky, much like the one that fateful day, nine years ago. I could not help but smile as I continued on with my mindless task. I felt deep gratitude that I am able to go out into a driveway that Mike and I own and do the simple work of sweeping, feeling peaceful to my core. I have that right, because so many have put their lives at risk to protect me and my family. I have that right because I live in a country who values freedom, life and the pursuit of happiness. I feel blessed because I am so very blessed.
Ask yourself today, where were you on September 12, 2001, and then smile and feel very proud of yourself and the country you live in, because you, my dearest friend, are a national hero.

10 Pounds of Crap In a 5 Pound Bag

OK, so I m seemingly outing myself online for all to see. It's ridiculous how we live for now. I see the pictures and all I can think is, the neighbors are going to call and try to make us a A&E special on "Hoarders".
I would love to say, "I have no idea how this happened. One day I looked up and was surrounded by someone's stuff." Or I could try and be delusional and think that instead of someone breaking in and stealing our stuff, they keep dropping things off.
The truth is, we had a big house and decided it was a brilliant idea to keep everything we ever owned to fill it up. I watched over the years as the kids, Mike and I filled our 3000 square foot house from stem to stern, without much thought about what we would do if we had to downsize or live much smaller. I, personally, used the excuse of, "What if the kids need it when they move out?" The truth is there are thrift stores all over the place they can shop at to fill whatever apartment they going to live in. The other truth is, 3 of my kids are at my house, so they don't need anything, right now.
So many excuses, so little time. There is a solution to all of this, but it is hard, time consuming and I really don't want to do it, but I am anyway. Painstakingly, I am going through every single box, evaluating every inch of the contents and deciding once and for all if we love it, need it, or use it. Every piece of furniture is being scrutinized as well. Does it fit the life we want? Is it practical, useful or beautiful? Man, I hate this process. It takes me all day everyday to go through several boxes, only t revisit it later and decide to get rid of what isn't fitting into our lives anymore. I have kids saying I am throwing out their childhood. I get why they feel that way. My response is always the same, "Your childhood has left you behind to make room for your adult hood. The party is over, now go and get a box to donate, sell or throw away as much as you can."
I am the having to be strong about not hanging onto unnecessary stuff. There have been great sacrifices along the way, I assure you. The pram my sister and I used as babies, then my kids used got the ax. The rocking chair that I rocked my babies in got the ax. I am currently eyeballing some antiques that no longer suit my "live with less" lifestyle, too. Mike has stereo speakers that will blow your hair back, that he loves. The unfortunate part is they are ancient, standing 9 feet tall and don't fit. They, too, are getting the ax. The bottom line for now is if it isn't nailed down, not being used to it's fullest potential, then out it goes. The dogs circle around their food supply, lately, I think, fearful they may hit the bricks too.
This week we are building in cabinetry and a lovely granite bar to house our office supplies, art supplies and beer steins. If something can't do triple duty, it is out of here. It is a tall order to get things in shape, while jogging 4 miles out my way through the maze of boxes, bags and extra furniture. In the end, it will be worth it, knowing in two short years we may be doing it all again. UGH!

Two Old Farts Blowing In the Wind

" I think I may have broken my collar bone", I say matter of fact to my husband, as we sit down for five minutes to catch up on the days events.
"Hold that thought, I think I hear the phone ringing."
"I don't hear the phone, what is it you hear?" I crane my neck to listen more closely.
"Never mind, it's probably just my tinnitus. I hear ringing all the time now. At work I could have sworn the phone was ringing. I kept picking it up saying 'hello, is anybody there?' Eventually someone was there, but it was more of a lucky guess at that point." Michael sighs.
"Well, funny you should mention phones. I was on a ladder putting things on a shelf..." Michael interrupts,"Is that when you think you broke your collar bone?" "No," I say half exasperated at the interruption," As I was saying, I was up on the ladder because as it turns out I am only two feet tall, when I thought I heard the phone ring." Michael looks at my tilted head. I continue, "I was running for the phone when I tripped over the old dog..."
Again Michael interjects, "Is that when you think you broke your collar bone?" "No," I answer more emphatically, "I tripped and old dog nearly wet herself so I rushed her outside, and no, that is not when I broke my collar bone either. I got her out and was rushing back in for the phone when I slipped and fell on the puddle she left behind."
"Oh my," Michael exclaims, "that must have been just awful! I can see how you would get hurt from a fall like that."
"Well, I won't lie, it hurt, mostly my ego, but that isn't it either. I went to the kitchen thinking I could grab a couple of paper towels to clean up the mess and grab the phone at the same time. I was just about to reach for the paper towels, when the food processor fell and slammed into my ankle."
"Don't tell me, let me guess, that isn't when you broke your collar bone either?" Michael smiles as he mocks my pain and humiliation.
"You are correct, Sir, that is also not when it happened. It happened when I picked up the phone."
"What happened when you picked up the phone?" Michael now looks completely puzzled. "I broke my collar bone," I say flatly and sip my cup of tea.
"Wait, you picked up the phone and what else?" Michael sits up as if he missed something. "Nothing else happened. I picked up the phone, I heard a very loud snap and now I can't move my head. That is the whole story. How was your day?"
Michael looks past me distracted, "It was OK, nothing like your day. Is that the phone ringing?"

The Lost Summer

I lost a whole summer this year. I cannot account for a single period of time this summer that had anything to do with the season. I watched as other kids went back to school, knowing my kids were going to college and starting later. All of the kids are in college. It makes my head swim, thinking of how fast it all went.
The difference in summers these past few years is astounding to me. The changes everybody has gone through, the metamorphosis of the family, seeing everyone change in a hundred different ways. Two summers ago I was writing my first book. Last summer I was promoting my published book, and this year I was preparing to start my second book. In two years I became a writer. Sometimes I look back and think it is all ridiculous.
My oldest graduated from college, my youngest boy had a life altering experience, my oldest boy made some pretty heavy life choices for himself, deciding who he wanted to be and how he wanted to make that happen, and the youngest, well, she graduated from high school, getting ready to be a freshman all over again, only this time in college.
Mike and I, didn't have time for a vacation, or to go on day trips or do anything even remotely summer like. There was no pool, or beach or camping, hiking, biking or picnics. All summer long we looked for a house, bought a house, sold a house and moved piles of boxes from one place to another. We are currently still in boxes. There is an isle way from one end of the house to the other, with boxes full of sundry stuff on either side we haven't found a home for yet. All I have written about for months is moving. Had I known the realities of how hard this was going to be , I assure you, I would have taken a time out for the nervous breakdown I rightfully deserve. Instead, I have been cautiously optimistic, relaying to the family how wonderful things will be once we truly get settled. I am smart enough to know to keep my mouth shut as to how long that will take.
I had started to do that thing where I regretted this summer. I was feeling bad about not having a summer with any fun in it. This summer was all about the work, fun would have to wait. I am and always will be the brick house little pig. I stopped myself, and Michael stopped me too, from berating myself for not being able to pull a rabbit out of this particular hat. "Baby, there is no way we could have done anything better, or even different than what we did", Michael gently reminded me. "Yeah, I know, I just wish I had more time or more hands, or something that might have made this better", I sighed wistfully. Michael looked at me, holding my face in his hands, "Look, we all did the best we could. That has to be enough."
Yes, we did the best we could with all of our unforeseen circumstances and it really does have to be enough. If I have any regrets, they are wasting time regretting things.
This will remain the Rip Van Moving summer, the lost summer, where bad things, amazing things, and miraculous things have happened. It will be the summer of growth, change and maturity for all of us. It wasn't the worst summer we have ever had, although I will tell you it is in the top 10 list, but it was hardly a summer full of joyous memories either.
We all like the new house. The kids call it cozy. No one misses the old house, which I find very odd. As cramped as we are right now, not one person in our family wishes we were more spread apart. I am fascinated that we aren't mourning the space, the pool and the finished house more, but we aren't, so I let it be what it is and isn't.
The kids rooms were finished first since they all have to start college classes soon. Michael has a clean space in the master bedroom to try and help him sleep less fitfully, without boxes staring him in the face all the time. And me, well, I am getting my kitchen sort of together so that I can cook my way out of my stress. It is my go to move, baking, frying and simmering my burdens into delectable concoctions my family will devour. My oven is half the size I need, the stove only has two burners that work and the cupboards belong in Barbie's dream house rather than my kitchen, but I have made entire dinners and even baked a pie.
It is the end of the lost summer. I look forward to pulling my dead bodies out of the attic, getting ready for Halloween. This is going to be a great house for holidays. I just feel it in my blood soaked bag of bones.