Amy the Mom

Clark

Eleven years ago, I met the man who became my husband.  Our love was quick to take hold, and I broke all of my single mom dating rules when I introduced him to my kids within a month of meeting him. Steve had a year old dog, Clark, a black lab who was his constant companion.  I maintain that it was the kids' love for Clark that led to them loving Steve so easily.  He was the dog they always wanted, and the one I couldn't afford to give them during my years as a single parent.

Steve bought Clark after deciding it was time to take a year off from dating and relationships.  They forged a bond that is one of the strongest I've ever seen between man and dog.  Steve made the winning bid for a puppy at a Pheasants Forever auction in Clark, South Dakota.  Hence his name.  He was a baby-only a few weeks old, and Steve tucked him into his jacket to warm his tiny body.  From then on, Clark was carried in Steve's jacket until he was too big for such transport, but Steve still took him everywhere.  The dog went to work with him every day.  When Steve visited job sites, Clark was on the seat next to him, or in a kennel in the back of his truck during warmer months. The pair were together almost 24/7/365 until Steve built a new office in 2006 and decided Clark would be better off at home.  The kids were home in the early afternoon, and home all summer, and Clark always had at least one other dog at home to keep him company.  

This early bond between man and dog left Clark extremely protective of his master.  As Clark grew, his bark was deep and loud, and more than a little intimidating-especially once he reached his peak weight of 130 pounds.  Any stranger that approached Steve was greeted with a big, black dog growling and barking at them, the hair on his back often raised-a terrifying sight. If you've ever visited our home, you've seen that side of Clark.  It was all show.  Clark was what my dad would have called a "rough, tough creampuff", quite literally all bark, no bite.  But with Steve, the kids and me, the dog was a gentle giant.  He was the most loving, sweet-natured boy, full of kisses and always by our side.     

It was always easy to love Clark.  His happiness when family came home from school and work was unflagging, he greeted you with love whether you were gone for fifteen minutes or five days.  He was miserable the few times we boarded him.  The first time we kenneled him for a week, he lost ten pounds and was almost unrecognizable when we arrived to retrieve him.  His joy was obvious as he tackled each of us, relieved to finally be reunited with his family.  

Clark was one of the shiniest, most handsome dogs you can imagine. Under the full sunlight in summer, I swear you could see your reflection in his fur.  

He was full of wild, unbridled energy for the first two years of his life. We used to own a cabin in Western Wisconsin and Clark loved running and swimming with kids.  The first time they went swimming with him, Clark thought Alex needed rescuing, and took his boy's arm into his mouth and began paddling toward shore.  We doubled over with laughter, and let our dog know his family wasn't in distress.

It was hard to say whether Clark loved winter or summer more.  Every year, after the first significant snowfall, Clark would run outside and roll around in the snow.  He loved to take in big mouthfuls of the white stuff, and looked as if his muzzle was covered in sugar.  

He loved to go sledding with the kids.  Clark loved to do everything with the kids.  He tolerated them using him as a body pillow, a footrest, and a model.  He was never aggressive, he just loved being included. 

 

 

 

In 2007, Steve rescued a female black lab named Nori and introduced her to Clark.  Clark seemed less than thrilled at first, but Nori's youthful exuberance was good for him.  She was two years old to his five and proved to be the perfect companion to the older dog.

 

Three years later, in 2010, a friend let us know he couldn't care for his black lab anymore and Remy joined our family.  Remy was only a year old, and the 8-year-old Clark and 6 years old Nori were unprepared for the disruption of this wild man.  I was sure we'd made a horrible mistake for the first week, but Remy grew on us.  Clark made sure the newcomer understood who was boss and that Remy was at the bottom of the pecking order.  It only took a couple of instructive nips and growls for Remy to get the message.  He loved to lay with Clark in the kitchen while I cooked.  As long as Clark had first dibs on any food that landed on the floor, Remy was safe.

 

 

 

Clark could never stand to be alone.  He wouldn't even stay downstairs by himself.  If I was in the shower, he was on the bathmat. If I was cooking in the kitchen, he was on the floor nearby, waiting for scraps.  He followed you from room to room, always watching.  He slept in the bedroom with Steve and me each night, either on the floor just below me, or in our walk-in closet.  Always close.  

Over the last twelve years, Clark had a life full of ups and downs. Mostly ups, but his physical challenges were many.  Shortly after we moved into our home, Alex left a sliding door open in the basement and Clark took advantage of the oversight and slipped out.  By the time we realized he was gone, a half hour had passed.  We drove around a couple of miles of our home, calling him, looking for him in the dark.  After several hours, he hadn't returned and all of us were in tears.  That night was agony.  There was no sign of him the next morning either.  We left the sliding glass door open in case he found his way home in the middle of the night.  Three days after disappearing, I was in the shower and Clark came into the bathroom-soaking wet, covered in dirt and burrs, but no worse for the wear otherwise. I phoned Steve to let him know our boy had returned.  He burst into tears with relief and rushed home to see for himself.  The story has become part of our family lore, we never stopped wondering what Clark did during his three days on the run.  Where was he, what did he see?  

After Clark's great escape, he was taken to the vet for neutering.  It was at that vet visit that we were made aware of a cataract and hip dysplasia.  Common problems for a purebred black lab. Knowledge of the cataract was the explanation Steve needed for Clark's struggles during hunting training, so that plan was scrapped.  While Clark's cataract impaired his vision slightly, it was glaucoma in his other eye that led to his next health crisis.  I'm so grateful we had the ability to pay for Clark's healthcare because it's easy to understand how another dog's family may have made a different decision.  Buying a dog is the cheapest part of ownership, the cost in ensuing years is where the biggest expense lies.  By the time we realized Clark had glaucoma, it was too late to save his eye and our family vet referred us to the University of Minnesota Vet Clinic.  We were given the option to have a prosthetic eye implanted but opted to leave Clark perpetually winking.  When my niece saw him, she remarked that he looked like an old grizzled war veteran.  He did.  But he was no less lovable to any of us, and it didn't seem to slow him down much at all.

Post-surgery, I decided it was time to work on Clark's weight.  Clark always found a way to get extra food.  In spite of his girth, he was catlike when it came to grabbing chow off the counter.  His favorite treat was a loaf of bread.  If the pantry was left open, and Clark was unattended, it was feeding time.  More than once I came home from work to find empty bread loaf wrappers strewn across the floor.  Once I left a 9x13 pan of brownies on the counter to cool.  Hours later, the pan had disappeared.  I accused the kids of eating them, they all plead ignorance.  I couldn't imagine Clark got them, the counter is bar height and he showed no evidence of gastric distress.  After an hour of looking, I found the pan underneath a coffee table in the family room, licked clean.  Clark's weight topped at 130, and I couldn't imagine the struggles that awaited if we kept going down that path, so I cut his daily food portion and kept a closer watch on his snack intake.  He was never small, but our vet was pleased when I got him below 100.  

My favorite times with Clark were spent in the yard.  He loved to lay in the grass, soaking up the sun and sniffing the air while I gardened.  For hours, he would observe the comings and goings of our little cul de sac, I would let him drink from the hose, he would tear apart my empty pots or gnaw on a random branch.  This fall, we had beautiful weather until the end of October.  As I prepared my beds for winter and planted my mums, I gazed at Clark in the yard.  I knew deep down, this would be his last time watching over me and my gardening. Ultimately, that was Clark's job-protecting and loving us.  He never flagged in his responsibility.  

 

In the past year, I noticed Clark's weight declining even more.  His last annual vet appointment in October revealed he was at 76 pounds.  Not small by any means, but the wasting around his hips was especially evident.  His doctor called him, "Kiddo" during the exam and I laughed at the joke.  Our old man was anything but a kid.

Thanksgiving in our house is open to friends and family.  I love cooking for my people, but the dogs are restricted to the garage or bedroom during meal time, their begging is pathetic and endless.  This year, one of my best friends, Jill, brought her sister Keri with her to dinner.  Keri had eaten with us a couple of years earlier, but I'm always nervous about how newcomers to our home will react to the herd of canines in our house.  Keri insisted she loved dogs, and wouldn't mind if they were around.  Release the hounds!  The dogs stampeded to the dining room and instead of barking and growling at a stranger, Clark went right up to Keri and kissed her face as she asked, "Who is this gentle, old soul?"

I nearly fell out of my chair.  "Gentle old soul?" Clark? I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  Clark needed regular visits before he had that comfort level with someone new.  I was even more astounded after dinner when Keri lay on the floor next to Clark, gently stroking him.  Folks, I don't like to lay on our floor, but I loved Keri as much as I love her sister Jill at that moment and I was so grateful that she spent the evening with our family.   

The night after Thanksgiving one of my other best friends, LeAnn came over for our annual leftovers get together.  As usual, she brought big marrow bones for the dogs, who were always overjoyed to see her. After dinner, we sat in the kitchen and talked and Mario announced something was wrong with Clark.  He was on the couch having a seizure.  I grew up with a dog who suffered from seizures most of her life, so I was calm.  Steve was ready to burst into tears. Even though I didn't panic, I knew it was not a good sign to see this symptom show up at this late in the game.  Clark was disoriented afterward, but by the next morning was pretty much back to normal.  I took him to the vet and we agreed that we'd start medication only if Clark had another seizure.  Unfortunately, that was within the week.  It was if a clock started ticking down our Clark's time with us.  The medication left Clark disoriented, so we dropped the dosage.  A few days after Christmas, Clark suffered two more seizures at night within a few hours of each other.  The next morning he could barely walk, and seeing his world shrink to our family room was awful.  We slept fitfully and briefly for the next two days and cried much.  Clark looked sad and scared, and it was obvious what needed to be done.  

On December 30th, we put down our beloved Clark.  I want to believe that Clark held on until Alex was home, ensuring that all of his family members would be able to say their final farewells to him.  It was probably just serendipitous, but it was enormously comforting to the human contingent that held Clark as he took his final breath.  My husband is beyond heartbroken. Two days later, his tears are still flowing.  

I want to thank the incredible staff at Eagan Pet Clinic for the amazing care they gave Clark for the last nine years, as well as the care they continue to provide to Nori and Remy.  They have been emotionally supportive in the last week and took the time to call me back after I called them sobbing, looking for their guidance and approval with our horrible decision. Thanks also to the doctors at The University of Minnesota Veterinary Medical Center who cared for Clark when he lost his eye due to glaucoma.  

Finally, I hope that you never need to use the service, but when the decision to end Clark's pain became obvious, we wanted to avoid an ugly group cry at our vet's office.  They are phenomenal, but the thought of loading poor Clarkie into the car in subzero weather and putting him through that stress wasn't the way we wanted him to spend his last moments.  Through our vet, we were referred to MN Pets, a firm whose doctors will visit your home and let your pet pass away in familiar surroundings with loved ones by their side.  Dr. Melinda came to our door and I went to shake her hand, but instead collapsed into her shoulder with a sobbing hug, which she warmly returned.  She was so gentle and understanding with the family, the absolute best possible option for a sad ending.  Clarkie was surrounded by the five people who loved him the most, stroking him, declaring their love for a dog who was as much a part of our family as any human.  His fur was wet with our tears.  

In a book of essays, Just Beyond the Firelight, Robert James Waller writes of the pain of putting down his beloved Roadcat.  "For some days after, I swore I would never go through that again.  If it came to euthanasia, I would refuse to be present.  I have changed my mind. You owe that much to good companions who have asked for little and who have traveled far and faithfully by your side."  

Annelise took this photo last August as Clark waited for Steve to come home.  It's my favorite picture of him.

 Clark Harrison January 19, 2003-December 30, 2014 

 

 

 

 

 

November Already?

It's been eleven months since I last posted, so let's dust this thing off and go for a month of daily posts again! Last year on November 2nd, I posted pictures of my son as he was sworn into the United States Marine Corps. Today, my barely 18 year old son is wrapping up his last month of boot camp in San Diego at Camp Pendleton.

The year leading up to Alex's departure was tough on me. The littlest things could prompt crying jags, and I spent the better part of Labor Day weekend in tears. Alex's platoon had the final swearing in ceremony on the field before the Minnesota Twins baseball game on Labor Day. This elevated an already momentous occasion to new emotional levels for me. My husband, who is stepfather to Alex and his twin siblings, was just as emotional as I...possibly worse, since I practically cried myself dry at some point the day before Alex's final swearing in ceremony.

The young men and women marched on to the field, accompanied by several Marines who themselves were sworn in at a Twins game in 1967.  The author of a book about their experience in Vietnam, Christy Sauro, Jr., was among them. 

I packed extra handkerchiefs, which proved useful when Alex's name was emblazoned on the scoreboard.

Our seats were at an angle that wasn't ideal for photos, but I'm keeping a lot of those images in my heart. 

Afterwards, the Marines treated family members to a lovely rooftop reception at Seven, a sky bar in downtown Minneapolis.  The weather was flawless.  I looked at the young men and women sworn in with Alex...none seemed old enough for the enormous responsibility ahead.  They looked both confident and nervous, certainly still coasting on the ovation and outpouring of gratitude shown them at the baseball game three hours earlier.

I hugged my son more that last weekend than I had in the last five years combined.  His last words to me before he joined his platoon mates, were "See you in thirteen weeks!" He smiled broadly, and I wept as I remembered him as a five year old, climbing on to the school bus for the first time.  He climbed the bus stairs and never looked back.  That was the first time I truly realized...they're all going to leave one day...the diapers, the little shoes, the Matchbox cars and Legos...it's all temporary.  Someday, I realized that morning thirteen years ago,  I will have to say goodbye for real.  September 6th was the first goodbye.  It's clear to me that my son is never again going to need his mom...at least in the role I've held the last 18 years.  I'm sure he'll ask my advice, and hopefully my duties as a grandmother will be called on at some point, but he doesn't need my permission, or approval, or financial support any more.  That is sad, but that is a job well done, too.

The letters from boot camp are both hilarious and worrisome, but I can sense a maturity in my oldest son that wasn't there in August.  I'll bring a bale of handkerchiefs with me to Camp Pendleton, because I know Alex's transformation will bring a new wave of tears-both joyful and sad. 

Proudest mom. Ever.

Join the Finken Circle

I like to think of this blog as the perfect medium for sharing recipes and stories, and for updating my friends and family who live far away.  I realize at it's core, it's a vanity project, but I hope that I never come across as an "It's all about me" type of person.   Tonight, I need to use my little audience to get the word out about a family in need. 

Recently, I learned that one of the women in my office-one of my closest friend's assistants-is facing an unthinkable family crisis.   Brenda Finken's husband, Mike,  has recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer that has metastasized to his liver.  You can visit the Finken Family Website to learn more about Mike's battle and how you can help the family-even if it's just a prayer or a positive thought.  Brenda and Mike have four wonderful sons, which makes this illness that much more devastating. 

 
 
If you have the ability, please send a donation via Paypal.  Mike's paid time off went fast, as you can imagine, and Brenda is staying home to care for him and the family.  Anything you can do to help the Finkens will be much appreciated. 

I'm so grateful for the wonderful feedback I get from friends near and far, in real life and on the Internet, for this little blog.  Thank you all for reading, and please keep the Finkens in your thoughts and prayers during the holidays and as Mike continues to fight his illness. 

Love,

Amy

Thirteen

Dear Mario and Annelise,

On December 17th, you officially became teenagers.  As usual, this post is tardy.  Having a birthday that falls smack dab in the middle of the holiday season virtually insures that your celebration will be either overlooked or muted.  My apologies for delivering you a full month early.  Let the record show-your original due date was in fact, January 11th-so in a sense, I'm actually right on time with this post!

I'm always amazed when  a parent of several children tells me that they have a favorite child.  I can't comprehend such blatant and cruel favoritism.  I love all three of you in such different ways, how could I claim to love one of you more than the other?  Alex is my oldest, I identify with him because I am a firstborn.  He and I had two and a half years together before you twins came into our world.  Annelise, you are my only daughter, my salvation in a household of men and biologically the child I identify with the most.  Mario, you are my baby.  To be sure, only by two minutes, but you are my baby.  You and I are most alike in temperament and in our culinary tastes.  So, never fear children, I could never choose one of you to be my favorite.  I love each of you so completely and so uniquely that I could never make that choice.

You started junior high this year.  I would love to report that it was a smooth transition, but we all know it's been a little rough.  Hopefully, you'll hit your stride after Christmas break and all will be well.  You both look the part of teenagers now, that's for sure.  Each of you has sprouted up several inches in the last few months.  Annelise, your body is showing girlish curves now and you've taken a greater interest in fashion and makeup.  Mario, your growth spurt resulted in a slimming effect and I'm startled whenever I look at the lean young man with peach fuzz on his face.  I don't know what happened to those two little critters who let me dress them in coordinating outfits and spoke to each other in a language foreign to everyone but each other.

You know one of the things I love the most about you two?  Your fabulous sense of humor.  I love how you guys can't wait to tell me about a funny new episode of Spongebob and how you're rediscovering one of my favorite sitcoms from the 90's, Wings.  Sitting on the couch and laughing withyou guys is one of the greatest feelings in the world.   Conversely, getting the two of you to pose for a photo without mugging for the camera continues to be a challenge. 

In defense of my tardy post, this was the first Christmas in years where I was able to spend a lot of quality time with you guys.  The holidays fell conveniently on days that allowed me to spread out my remaining vacation time and be with you almost entirely during the season.  I loved it and it was a real benefit to recharge my mental battery.  I went back to work last week and came out swinging. 

I keep waiting for the teenage years to turn ugly, or at least for you to decide that you would much rather be with your friends than your boring old mom and step-dad.  Luckily for us, that hasn't happened yet.  My fondest wish is that you will never tire of me, and will value our time together as much as I do.  You're still generous with hugs and kisses, in spite of your advancing adolescence and I'll never refuse that physical affection. 

I know I'm lucky when other people remark on how well behaved you are, and how clever your sense of humor is.  We lunched with a woman from work recently, and I laughed when she volunteered to babysit for you if I ever needed the favor.  Fortunately, we're well past that stage and you've both expressed an interest in providing that service yourselves.  Perhaps you can start with the new little boy/girl twins across the street!   Always when I see our neighbors, little Alex and Sophie, I wish that I remembered much more of your infancy and toddlerhood.   This is the burden of mothers of multiples, we suffer vast memory lapses as a result of chronic sleep deprivation, constant over-stimulation and utter exhaustion.  Some moments, of course, are best forgotten though.

 

 

Good times. {{{shudder}}}

But there are other days that I hold close in my heart, and when I allow myself to think past the cases of Huggies and Similac, I long for one more chance to kiss those fat little cheeks and thighs of yesteryear.  I love you, Twins. 

 

 

 

 

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I have a tendency to over promise, putting myself in unnecessarily high pressure situations.  As well meaning as my ambitions may be, I fail to remember that I only have so many hours in the day and that I don't have the ability to function on less than seven hours of sleep each night.  Around Halloween, I asked Steve if he would like me to make gift baskets filled with homemade baked goods for his clients.  He thought it was a wonderful idea, but cautioned me not to volunteer for the job unless I could really follow through.  I assured him that it would be no problem, I could pull it off in my "free time".

Factors I neglected to consider when making this promise:

• I had never undertaken a project of this scope before
• My job is busiest during the months of November and December
• The recipes I selected were labor intensive and elaborate in their design 

Steve's office manager originally asked for 27 gift baskets.  After the first delivery, Steve requested six more.  I decided to make one loaf of pumpkin bread for each basket, along with eight different cookies, a pouch of mulling spices and some homemade chocolates.  I wanted a range of flavors, and a variety of cookies.  I began making dough and freezing it the weekend after Thanksgiving.  This worked well, but I grossly underestimated how much dough I really needed.  Storage of finished cookies also proved to be a challenge. 

   

I borrowed my mother-in-law's KitchenAid stand mixer so teamed with mine, I had double the mixing power.  My KitchenAid celebrated it's 20th year of service recently without even a moment of trouble.  After two weeks of putting it through an endurance marathon of double batches of cookie dough, it waved a white flag when one of the tines on the wire whisk sheared off.   I gave ol' Faithful a loving pat and ordered a replacement whisk on eBay.  

The last month was a real education for me.  I learned some tough lessons, honed unfamiliar techniques and leaned on my improvisational skills.  Ingredient conservation was critical, so I tried new recipes to prevent waste.  I became addicted to Martha Stewart's website, and incorporated a couple of her "Cookie of the Day" recipes into the basket. If I dare to undertake this Herculean effort next year, I've got pages of notes and a better plan to make the gesture less stressful and more efficient.  Too many nights were spent taking catnaps on the couch after midnight between batches of peppermint meringues drying in the oven.  

  

Here's what made the final cut for inclusion in the baskets:

• Homemade mulling spices in hand ribboned pouches
• Gingersnaps
• Spritz
• Key lime thumbprints
• Peanut blossom cups
• Mexican wedding cookies
• Pecan icebox cookies
• Oreo truffles
• Peppermint meringue kisses

I had intended to only use baskets to hold the treats because of the delicate nature of butter cookies, so around Thanksgiving I began visiting thrift shops and buying baskets that were $3.00 or less.  This ended up being an exercise in frustration.  The random pricing of Goodwill employees and the inconsistent selection prevented me from accumulating enough baskets, so I used gift bags to make up the difference.  Next year, I'll collect baskets year round and store them for later use.  Further complicating my supply issues was the closure of my baker's supply store, Sweet Sensations.   They had a fantastic selection of pastry boxes and bags, cookie cutters in every shape and sanding sugars in every imaginable hue. Michael's and  JoAnn's  were only marginal alternatives.  The plan for 2009 is to locate  a new supplier. 

The grateful feedback I received made the project worthwhile, but the game plan will be tighter next year, and I suspect the project itself will be grander in scope.  I plan on testing recipes earlier in autumn and storing cookie dough starting at Halloween, rather than waiting until Thanksgiving.  The weekend prior to delivery, I will take two vacation days and have four days dedicated to efficient, nonstop baking. 

My apologies to my family for the lack of attention since Thanksgiving, although I think you have all enjoyed the fringe benefits.  To my friends in both real life and the blogging world, I've missed you and will be back in touch now that the holidays are behind us.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to take a nap.  For the next week. 

Six years ago today

I'm trying to organize my electronic data, and I found a CD backup from an old hard drive.  Talk about your trips down memory lane.  I was getting a little sniffly looking at old photos and wondered where all the time has gone.

 

My sweet little angels.  I love you three more every day.  I'm relieved when I see your smiles in this picture...it was such a difficult time for me, and I always wonder if I was a good mom back then.  Certainly, I must have done a few things right. 

Miss Wuh-leez

Do you get a lot of the chain emails that threaten financial ruin if you don't forward it to 50 friends within five minutes?  I get them constantly, and from people that really should know better.  Some of these actually contain sweet messages or sentiments, but I'm so put off by the emotional blackmail, that I'm too pissed to appreciate them.  There is one that I've received that always makes me think of someone that probably saved my life several years ago, my former next door neighbor, Louise.  The email is the one that talks about people coming into your life for a reason, or a season, or a lifetime. 

When my ex-husband and I first moved to Minnesota, we lived in the suburb of Apple Valley.  Our move in date was December 12th, and after living in Georgia for the past seven years we were looking forward to a traditional snowy Christmas (fools).  Our hopes were crushed when the temperature climbed to 72 that day.  The movers wore wife beaters and shorts as they unloaded the moving van and joked that this must be Texas, not Minnesota. 

The first night after we moved in, there was a knock at the door around 8 PM.  There was a small half circle window in the top panel of the front door, and I could see a pair of eyes and the top of someone's head peeking in.  I opened the door to find a middle aged couple, who introduced themselves as our next door neighbors, John and Louise.  Louise did almost all the talking as she pushed a white bakery bag full of cookies into my hands.  Quick introductions were made and she encouraged me to come over if I needed anything.  Oddly, even though the residents of this state are known for Minnesota Nice, John and Louise were the only neighbors who came to introduce themselves. 

Fast forward several months, the snow that we were so anxious for is finally melting, and the kids and I are going outside to see what the spring thaw is uncovering in our back yard.  Louise was also outside, doing some early spring cleanup.  She and I began to chat, and we discovered that we'd both lived in Pennsylvania and had done interstate transfers several times before settling in Minnesota.  Louise was the same age as my mother, her oldest daughter was the same age as me, but she had two teenaged children from her second marriage to John.  I found that I really liked her, and was grateful that she was so open and warm.  It had been a long winter of days spent cooped indoors with three children under the age of six, and I was craving a real live conversation with another human being.   To top it off, I knew there was something seriously wrong with my marriage, and I was a big ball of emotional turmoil inside.

In our house, I had a corner kitchen window that looked out over Louise's front sidewalk.  We'd exchange smiles and waves as she let her dog, Coco, out for bathroom breaks.  Occasionally, she'd come to the front door,  and would visit with the kids and me, never staying more than a half hour or so.  I wanted her to stay forever.  She was so generous with compliments, whether it was about the kids or my cooking or a little knick knack that I purchased in my lame attempts at decorating.  My marriage was deteriorating, I was scared shitless, but I confided in no one.  I was the poster child for low self esteem back in those days, and had convinced myself that I was the most worthless human on the planet.   

I kept my marital woes to myself.  I didn't want to share them with my family in Ohio, because I knew that if my husband and I reconciled my family would still cling to the wrongs that I'd shared with them.  I didn't want any unforgiven sins resurfacing at family reunions for the next fifty years, so I clammed up instead and reported to everyone that everything was fine, just fine.  For months, I was miserable and unable to function at any level more than Mommy.  I hadn't yet made any real friends in Minnesota, I felt completely out of place, and didn't know where to turn.  Years later, one of the teachers at my children's school told me that she always worried about me during that time.  She said the stress was etched on my face and she just didn't know how to approach me about it.  In hindsight, it's probably better she didn't since I was terrified, and I'm pretty sure that a conversation asking about my mental well being would have quickly dissolved into an endless crying jag.

In spite of my burgeoning friendship with Louise, I didn't confide in her.  Her family was there to celebrate my children's birthdays, her son babysat the kids on the rare occasion that I went out, and we shared dinners in each other's homes for a year until I realized that I was rapidly approaching a mental breakdown of some sort.  I called Louise and asked if she would mind coming over.  Alex was in school and the twins were occupying themselves in their playroom.   Louise came to the door, and we sat at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee while I told her that the life I was living was about to come to a crashing halt.  I was trembling, and out of breath, and dry mouthed.  She patiently listened, interjecting only with an "uh-huh," " hmm," or "I know how you feel."   She had survived her own difficult first marriage, and was completely empathetic.  She had my back, that woman.  When one of our snooty neighbors suggested to Louise that there was too much crabgrass in our lawn, Louise defended me to the woman and suggested that perhaps she should find better things to worry about.

For the next few months, Louise was by my side, literally.  The kids adored her and John, to them she was "Miss Wuh-leeze" and he was "Mr. John."  With no relatives within 800 miles, Louise and John were the closest thing the kids had to grandparents.  She was there whenever I needed her, always just a phone call away. She understood my desire to keep my family intact, and she let me know that no matter what my decision regarding my marriage, she supported me.  I can't go into all the sordid details of that relationship here.  Suffice to say, it was the darkest point of my life.  My ex and I, after much thought and effort, finally decided to end the marriage.  It was beyond the point of repair. 

Shortly after we made that decision, Louise broke more bad news to me.  She and John were being transferred to Chicago, a move that would return them to the city they loved and nearer their oldest daughter.  I was devastated.  I didn't let on too much, because I knew she was excited but sad to leave the kids and me behind.  I wanted to gather my little ones up and stow away in the moving van as they headed east.   The only bright spot of her move was that the very first listing I had as a real estate agent was her beautiful home.  She and John were patient as I muddled my way through the process.  I was numb the day she moved away and mourned silently for the better part of a month.  I kept looking for her out the window as I did the dishes, and when the doorbell rang, I held out hope that I'd see her eyes peeking over the window.  I was desperately lonely, but her phone calls and emails continued to pull me through the dark times, and Louise celebrated every single one of my victories with me. 

It's been more than eight years since then, and Louise and I still keep in touch.  I visited her in Chicago once, and hope to do so again...maybe I'll do Blogher  this summer and stop in to see her.  She is like my mom version 2.0, and she is a lifetime friend.  I only hope that she knows that I am indebted to her forever, she threw a lifeline to a drowning young woman and I can never fully repay her for that. 

The Most Popular Kids in Junior High

A few months ago I joined Facebook.  Initially, I did it only because I wanted to see more secrets every Sunday at PostSecret.  Soon, it became obvious that this application was very useful for my recruiting career.  My interest was further piqued when I was "friended" by one of my cousins in South Carolina (Hey, Georgeanne!) and started adding other cousins and pals from high school to my friendbank.  A little Googling unearthed my cousin Jim, a pilot in Florida, and he and I started to correspond every few days.  I laughed when I got his first email with the greeting "Hey Amos!", I had completely forgotten that he and his sister called me that back in the day.  Jim is a private pilot for the owner of the Miami Dolphins, a far cry from the kid I grew up with in small town Ohio.  Click here for a thirty year old photo of me and my cousin. 

Fast forward a month.  Jim and I were IM-ing on this past Friday night when he suggested I give him my phone number.  Too much was lost in translation, let's just talk the old fashioned way.  We chatted on the phone for an hour, and I suggested that surely he must fly into Minneapolis from time to time.  He told me to hold on for a second, he'd check his flight schedule.  Surprise!  He was scheduled for a trip to Minneapolis on Monday for an overnight stay!  I told him we lived only ten minutes from the airport and would love to see him. 

Late last night, I drove to a private airfield, and found my cousin taller, balder, but still the same old Jimmy.  I got the private tour of the plane, much to my surprise, and regretted not herding the family into the truck to see how the other half lives.  I brought Jim back to the house and we gave him a tour of Steve's office and shop and just chatted about what we'd been doing for the last twenty years. 

In spite of the fact that I was having minor surgery this morning and pressed for time, the twins wanted to see that plane.  I asked Jim if it was okay with his boss if we took a little tour of the aircraft.  He was happy to accommodate.  It was a beautiful morning on the airstrip and the twins whipped out their cell phones as soon as the plane was in sight. 

 

 Jim popped open the stairs and the tour began.  Oh, and the hams came out.

 

 

 

   

 

 

Now THAT's a field trip! 

Jim's knowledge of the plane and his ability rattle off statistics was amazing to my 12 year old twins as well as their mom.  I couldn't believe this was the same kid who swapped Star Wars trading cards with me in our youth.  I'm always impressed at the knowledge of math and physics required of pilots and I know Jim could have entertained the kids for hours. 

Thanks again, Cousin!  Hope you'll be able to stop in again soon!

Back to Ohio

Steve is fascinated by my little hometown in northeast Ohio and after visiting there last winter, he expressed a desire to see a Massillon Tiger football game.  Coincidentally, my mom's 65th birthday this year fell on the weekend of the biggest football rivalry in the state of Ohio-one that dates back to 1894-the Massillon Tigers and McKinley Bulldogs game.  If Steve was going to see a football game, this was the one to see.  We got a decent price on tickets and killed two birds with one stone.

I have mixed feelings about my hometown, and going back there is always a surreal experience for me.  For starters, I don't feel my age, and when I see people I knew in my youth I am shocked at how old everyone looks.  The shaggy, mullet sporting boys are now bald, middle aged men.  The girls whose figures I envied are victims of unforgivable gravity and spreading hips.  Economically, Northeast Ohio is an area that has never fared well, and right now things look especially grim.  Whenever I visit, I want to hire a fleet of buses and shoosh the entire population of Stark County into them and deliver the people to areas with better job prospects and a more optimistic outlook.  So many residents have never lived outside of that one zip code their entire life, an existence I knew would never work for me.  I left at 18, and never looked back.   I've lived in five different states, and would be perfectly happy if I left my mark in a few others before my time is up.  I love the process of discovering a new place and finding my way around an unknown community.   My wanderlust would never have allowed a happy existence for me in 44646 exclusively. 

Football is a source of pride and affordable entertainment for the population of Massillon.  It is a religion of sorts here, and in a town of 30,000 it's normal for 20,000 to show up for the McKinley game.  I haven't attended a football game here for almost a quarter of a century, but even then it wasn't my bag.  My free time was spent in the library with my nose stuck in a book, I never cared about sports.  I didn't attend Washington High School either, I went to the less athletically gifted Perry High School on the other side of town.  I wondered as I gazed upon the astroturf and the indoor training facility if the community would be better served with enhanced educational facilities, or if that would even be appreciated.

Back to the game though.  My sister and brother in law made sure that Steve had an authentic Massillon Tigers experience.  They woke early and prepared food for a tailgate party.  That's right, a tailgate party for a high school football game.  Hardcore fans are known to start as early as six in the morning at this endeavor.

 

 

 

 

I was stunned at the fervor of the fans, young and old. 

 

 

 

I'm not a student of the game, but I'm willing to bet there are very few high school stadiums with AstroTurf, digital scoreboards and luxury box seats.  

 

 

 

Equally impressive is the marching band, though it's not as grand as it was when I was in school.

 

Obie the Tiger is the team mascot.  One Obie wanders the field with the marching band and rallies the crowd during games.  Obie's costume is made from the hide of a real tiger. 

The team also has a real tiger cub on hand during football season, and Obie is kept by handlers who show the cat off in parades and elementary schools.  When I was little, Obie's cage was towed by a truck sporting a calliope and player who entertained townspeople who came into contact with it. 

 

Massillon won the game 17-0.  Steve's curiosity was satisfied and I left town secure in the belief that leaving Ohio was the best thing I ever did.  It was a great place to grow up, but it's not my home anymore. 

Celebration

Last night, we were given an anniversary gift by Steve's courier service.  Once again, they sent a limousine to pick us up at home and deliver us to the Capital Grille.  Even though the occasion was romantic, we brought along my mother in law Madeline and Alex to share dinner.  The limo driver presented us with an elaborately frosted cake which I knew wouldn't be touched by Steve or I until the next day because we always leave the Capital Grille feeling gluttonous. 

Madeline was thrilled to be invited and I enjoyed watching Alex take in the pageantry of the evening.  I was reminded of my very first upscale dining experience in Wilmington, North Carolina when I was around ten or eleven years old.  During a vacation, my parents decided that I was old enough to accompany them to The Bridge Tender, a restaurant sitting on the Intercoastal Waterway.  I vividly remember wearing my hair in braids, my face and shoulders stinging from a slight sunburn.  I loved seafood-or at least I loved popcorn shrimp from Red Lobster-so my parents were confident that I would appreciate the meal. 

I was presented with a menu, the same one my parents ordered from-not the kiddie menu.  I carefully reviewed my choices, noting the prices which seemed exorbitant to my eleven year old mind.  A dish caught my eye-Flounder stuffed with crab meat.  It was spendy, but not the most expensive item on the menu.  For some reason, I knew even at that age that it was bad form to order the priciest selection when someone else was treating.  I asked my dad if my choice was acceptable, and he and my mom gave me permission with a stern warning that I would be expected to eat my entire meal.  I ordered a baked potato-french fries seemed too provincial for such a fancy dinner. 

As I waited for my meal, I looked out the window to the water below.  A translucent jellyfish was just barely visible and I watched it's fluid movement until my meal was delivered.  I believe the wait staff was putting on a bit more flourish for my benefit, probably at my dad's insistence.  He's always been big on presentation.  This was the first time I had crab, and I was instantly smitten.  The flaky and delicate flounder served as a pocket for a deviled crab filling.  The onion and pepper medley was perfectly seasoned and didn't overwhelm the sweet meat.  Drawn butter was served on the side.  I felt important and pampered and I loved every minute of it.   

My parents need not have been concerned about my ability to finish the expensive entree.  I didn't leave a trace on my plate and hoped silently that dessert was an option.  Feeling benevolent, my father gave me permission to order a sweet ending to the meal.  I zeroed in on chocolate mousse.  It seems so common these days, but in the late 1970's...it was something.  The mousse came piped into a tall parfait glass topped with dark chocolate curls and was rich and smooth and everything I hoped it would be.  When we returned to the hotel, I couldn't stop talking about the exquisite meal and the restaurant even though my younger sisters were quite jealous about my treat.

Back to last night.  I watched Alex take in the surroundings all evening.  He was appropriately impressed when the valet rushed to open the doors of the limo.  We were greeted warmly by the staff upon our entrance.  Our waiter, Scotty, was the most charismatic waiter we've had in our four or five visits to the Capital Grille.  The food there is sublime, but the wait staff can be a bit uptight-although it's fitting given the formal atmosphere. 

We started off with the crab and lobster cakes for an appetizer, as well as calamari.  I could tell Alex was savoring each bite and as he popped a piece of squid into his mouth, he said that he loved every kind of food that comes from the ocean.  I indulged in a cup of the lobster bisque soup which defies description-but I'll give it a try anyway.  Creamy, smooth and rich.  The soup is full of large chunks of sweet lobster, dotted with fresh chives and the wait staff offers a dapple of sherry to finish it.  It's quite possibly the best soup I've ever had in my life. 

Because we were being treated to our meal last night, I indulged in a wine selection out of  my normal price range.  I'm going to lift from Robert Louis Stevenson when I tell you that the  2005 Belle Glos Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir that I enjoyed last night was "bottled poetry."  I asked Scotty if this was a wine I could purchase locally and he shook his head sadly.  My searches on the internet have proved him right-the vintage is apparently sold out.  If you get a chance to order it somewhere, I can't recommend it highly enough.  I haven't mastered the ability to pick up on  bouquet and notes, but the finish was sweet and smooth.  Probably better that it was such a rare treat, I'd hate to develop an attachment to that vintage.

Alex ordered the filet and poached lobster.  The rest of us stuck to beef only entrees.  For sides we chose the garlic mashed potatoes and fresh sweet corn sauteed with lime, cilantro and onion.  Alex enjoyed an Arnold Palmer with his meal, and basked under the doting attention of our server.  We had to order dessert of course, so Steve and I split a flourless chocolate cake, Alex had an enormous slice of chocolate hazelnut cake and Madeline had the coconut cream pie.  Delicious, all of it.  Madeline and I strategically saved some of our steak for the twins to enjoy as leftovers and Annelise nearly went wild with delight over the abundance of garlic mashed potatoes that found their way home.

Since Steve's courier service picks up the tab for a night like this usually twice a year, we've promised the twins that they get the next turn.  I hope they'll spring for a new suit for Mario, too.