Something Brighter

When the local fire department
set the Royal house ablaze,
grey confining smoke billowed up
over the woods of Cemetery Rd

The home had rested in a barren field
with its barn only yards away
and a tiny shed standing like its sentry nearby.
The barn’s paint had been washed out
but you could still make out
streaks of royal blue and red and a faint rusted orange.

If the sun from the west
was shining on the chubby apple tree
something brighter would quickly catch your eye.
Parked along the rear of the barn
was an old chevy truck
painted construction cone orange,
its polished chrome headlights and rusted grill
peeking out as if to let some passer by know
that life still abounded around that barn.

If you knocked,
feet would shuffle inside the home,
a space eclipsed
by a local college dorm.
A gentle man would open the door,
his long hair graying to white,
wearing a faded college t-shirt
and the presumed uniform of a farmer.
He would greet you
with a smile, lips turned up five degrees,
“Phillip Royal, but folks just call me Royal,”
he would say,
“been Royal all my life
so long ‘s I’ve lived here.”

On his land, no dirt had been turned
for the sake of crops,
no corn stalks were weeping in the wind,
or rows of garden
burrowing beneath themselves.
What life had Royal abandoned –
on the river, on the run –
for this retreat here?

The paper ran a story about a new public park -
the old fireworks factory was moving -
There would be a missing link between old park and new.
Thus the Royals negotiated a sale
as a tradeoff
for a town’s need for green.

Where would they go? Was there a “they”?
With a care center located minutes from their door,
would you drive by the entrance one dawn
and find a homemade sign,
Happy 100th Phillip Royal – King of Cemetery Rd?

The firefighters had left only straw
to cover the footprints of the three Royal plots.
At last sight, on that ground
stacks of trees that would never be climbed
sat in piles with a sign marked “dump”
holding the damage from the latest wind storm.

A spotted owl had migrated here,
one street over from where its giant oak had split.
And a man with two kayaks atop his truck
gazed through his binoculars
at a soaring skeleton of a tree, seeking the owl,
or waiting for Philip
to offer wisdom from this noble land.


Annette Januzzi Wick Manley

Food for Thought

I don’t spend much time volunteering in the schools as of late, with my youngest in the seventh grade. In his youth, I was a reading tutor for years, helping other students in his school develop the same sense of joy that he now enjoys, reading through pages of the latest fantasy fiction or sports novel.

Back in September, during PTA sign up week, I checked off November food drive, thinking that was far enough away for me to not have to plan for it in the present. There were no dates to mark down, so I tucked the notion away.

Following Halloween, a pleasant e-mail arrived, gently reminding me of my commitment. It was also a quite lengthy e-mail regarding all the volunteer opportunities that existed to serve one single purpose, using the Loveland students and families to help stock the pantry for Thanksgiving.

Each classroom and grade was given specific assignments for boxed rolls, canned broth, bags of stuffing. Each volunteer was asked to take on one or several of many roles, including sign maker, box bringer, children organizer, hot chocolate money collector. I speed read through the list of wants and needs, offered to make signs and committed to being there on the day of, to collect the food staples and stack them high.

When the day arrived, I showered, had my coffee and literally felt as if I were going of to work. The space for the food pantry drive was the gymnasium of a church I once considered attending. Because I liked their music, because I liked the time of their services and mostly because I could sit in the back, with Davis in the Sunday school and contemplate my life. Space to be at peace.

So it was I the same building, where children snaked through lines, sometimes missing the right pile, placing canned fruit in the canned broth section, or mistaking stuffing mix for roll mix.

But my favorites were the muffin mixes instead of roll mixes, creamed rice as an alternative to what, I don’t know. The expired labels on canned goods, the non readable labels on canned goods – how do manufacturers get away with that one? The beef broth instead of chicken broth and the gallon cans of golden yams. I have a family of six, but had no clue they came in these hefty sizes.

The group of volunteers mixed and matched canned veggies until I would later see the labels in my sleep – aftereffects of a Kinkead Ridge Red and Jeff’s BBQ in Landen. The tables were late in arriving due to power outages, so first, we stacked the goods on the floor, then we boxed, then we stacked again on tables.

As I began to make my way through he myriad of vegetable offerings, a chill traveled up my spine. I began to consider how often I had donated to food pantries in the past – rather nonchalantly. I would simply peek inside my cupboard, too tired to drive to Meijer – only a ½ mile from my door – places where I have walked to in the past. In the past, I might have been the contributor of the creamed rice, or certainly, being Italian, provided canniloni beans or chi-chi beans. I would have donated beef broth, because it was what I had. And yes, some blueberry muffin mix, instead of the rolls. And while I think the patrons of the pantry would appreciate the variety and my intentions were always clear, my mind was not.

In that space, when that thought occurred to me, I was rather embarrassed of my past actions when I hadn’t taken the time to check expirations, when I might have been in a hurry in the grocery store and perhaps picked up pork –flavored stuffing for the turkey or muffin mix instead of roll mix. Or even bought the generic jellied cranberry sauce instead of Ocean Spray, because it was closest to the cart.

I don’t discount any of the offerings or donations made that day by students who were participating in the activity with some sense of understanding of the predicament of the homeless and the hungry. Clearly, there are students in the district that may visit the pantry later that week, with a different purpose. They will be the client who gets to choose which canned vegetables they want – even if it is baked beans- or pick out pancake mix, instead of bread mix. Who knows, the pilgrims probably served some version of them!

But I will think clearly next time that this food passes from my hand to that of someone else in need and even if the ink for the expiration date rubs off on my hand as I pass it on, I will know its safe.

AJW
11/22/2008

After my recent stints of sales person at Kenwood for my sister's business - Golf-Chic Boutique - I was reminded of how hard retailers work for such little reward. I want to be mindful of that fact this season when sales are down and so are spirits. This is my ode to such.

Selling Ourselves

Look busy Father and Uncle would crow
to employees
toiling in the shadows
of 26^th and Broadway
beneath the banner of Januzzi’s Shoes.

Together they paced the aisles
before Father returned
to the back office space
to pore over “the books.”

We would be dispatched to our stations -
Brother to the store room to unpack
the cartons delivered by the man in brown.
It would have been like Christmas,

if Brother had been me,
caressing each style

before pricing and stocking.

Sister would slowly wind her way
towards the counter
to stand stoic

beside the rigid cash register queen

who scolded her when wrinkled ones and fives

were turned opposite of tens and twenties.

Grandpa, founder and mender,
would retire to his repair stand
where the musk of newly-shaped leather
mingled with the scent of cobbler’s glue.

Customer names were recorded on cards
kept in a metal cabinet.
Filing the recently pulled or
pulling the filed always fell to me.
I would make it a game
see how fast I could order the stack
or search for the cards
of boys with whom I was madly in love,
later to be stung by their betrayal
of wearing of new loafers
bought elsewhere.

Tension lingered in the air
on the days of sales
causing the aisles of shoes to quake -
the children’s section leaning into men’s boots,
rows of nursing whites

holding back women’s heels,
and ice skates teetering on the top

shelves above my head.

Retail was never easy
even before big box stores
swallowed up ideas and families.

But the business had been blessed
by the presence of the mill, the hospital,
and those who needed orthopedic shoes.
As if the store was a ministry itself -
serving and fitting -
and that purpose fed the family,
not the money collected
and carefully counted at day’s end.

Yet customers were never completely content

with the price, style or fit.
Ladies prattled

and squirmed in green vinyl chairs
squeezing bones into shoes too small,
waiting for us to admire their toes
in the slanted mirrors.
We could never lie to them,

we could never tell the truth.

We only knew that the odor of unwashed feet
would cause us
to seek out Grandpa’s shoe glue

or steal away to the store room,
relieved for a moment
from the duty and pride

of selling the shoes, the business, our selves.

Becoming Mom

The evidence is above my head. Old t-shirts from Davis’ basketball teams, old hand towels from my first wedding, a Loyola shirt that someone has grown out of, leftover t-shirts from charity events hosted. All these sit atop the wire shelves in my laundry room, in plain sight, pointing to my guilt.

Each day, a new piece of evidence appears. Just last night, I rinsed out a carry home salad container from the pizza parlor to store with my Tupperware. And when my friend Leigh and I are out for lunch and she offers me lotion, I watch as she squeezes the lotion out of the tube into her palm, while I flip my hand over and nudge a little lotion onto the top of my hand, then rub both bony tops together.

My sighs are heavier now, my worries a little deeper. I have set laundry days and usually threaten that any remaining items in the laundry will be donated to Goodwill. When did this begin, this becoming my mother? I ask and laugh to myself.

Surely, I have always been her, in some fashion. But now, I want to bake more of her cookies, try my hand (again) at ravioli, create my own sauce from homegrown tomatoes. I sink further into this writing chair knowing it is because she is slipping away.

Were I to survey my friends, my cohorts, would they reply the same? That “becoming their mother” occurred when they noticed she was not really available to them anymore.

There has been no official diagnosis of dementia, but even if there were, my mother would forget that she had dementia anyhow. If it werent so sad, it would be quite a funny running dialogue about her either forgetting to take her meds, or not wanting to all because she forgets she has the disease!

Oh sure, mom still answers the phone. Oh sure, she still makes cookies, better than I ever will. But for Fall, she iced the cookies with Easter colors. When asking about the stepdaughters’ birthdays, two of whom were born in November, my mother cannot understand why the third daughter’s birthday does not also appear on her November calendar. I answer quietly, “If you flip to April, Mom, you’ll see her name there.”

As we speak over the phone, I envision her scrutinizing her calendar. She mumbles back and forth about this April birthday and that, while in my mind, I am wishing, “I don’t want you to go, mom. Inside your body to a place where none of us can find you. I know you will be safe there. I know it is a good place to be. After all those years of fighting back the arthritis, which I swear was caused by the stress of your worries, you are lighter. The telling is in your face, your oh so youthful, almost angelic face. Your soft cheeks, not yet hollowed all the way out. You were and are the original Ivory girl. There was never a need for a Sephora in your life. No cosmetician ever asked you to sit in her chair. There was no need, they could not have sold you on any product that could soften or lighten your face and cheeks.”

Her actions, her quirks, her ideas are now lost in a jumble of neurons. As of late, I have been telepathing them, almost intentionally performing actions that define her as Mom so as to hold on to her as she was. Her thriftiness that she displayed by saving all the old tees and towels for rags, I too am coveting, as if there are stories attached to each piece of fabric or rag. Stockpiling peanut butter, when it’s on sale or not, though it is the cheapest lunch item by far in my grocery cart. I leave my shoes at the foot of the staircase, when I go up the carpeted steps to the 2^nd floor. When I descend, I put those shoes back on.

I find myself shopping less, because I know she doesn’t anymore, considering more duties in the community or the writing center. She was a committed person, who taught first grade CCD every Saturday morning for ten years. Who could blame her for choosing the first graders, they had to be so much cuter than we were at 14. And too, she had been trained as a teacher for the young ones, she was at her best, reading the Bible stories, emphasizing the Ten Commandments, she was never deep, but always firm. And then, immediately following her classes, she would rush us off to bowling leagues.

Her energy I have never duplicated, but I also recall her naps – and am prone to my own – on the couch when we came home from school, her daytime attachment to General Hospital – I guess that’s no different from my attachment to West Wing or 30 Rock.

Just last night, I looked up from my post at end of the kitchen table and was caught off guard by my reflection in the sliding glass door. I may someday fear looking in any mirror, seeing myself actually age into my mother. But for now, I observe a woman who saved the world- the world she lived in - through photos, dinners, traditions and green stamps. I am trying to become a little piece of that woman.

08-27-08

My husband Mark once said that I write best about loss. But if writing is about capturing a moment, one that was formerly present, then writing is truly about finding a container for the past.

First, I tell you, I carry an ocean with me everyday. I have since the day I first dipped a tentative toe into the Pacific Ocean along the Oregon Coast some fourteen years ago. My son Davis was birthed there, my first husband’s ashes spread there, but mostly, it is where my soul resides. Every year since I moved away, I return to spend days at a time strolling the sands of Oceanside, and the many other beaches where my spirit found peace and healing in the tide pools and sand dunes. It helps that my son’s grandparents now reside where we once did.

I used to plan my Oregon trips according to the tides. When the moon was at its fullest, at the height of the July summer, the tides were at their lowest due to gravitiational pull. A tug that not only impacted the water levels, but pulled at me too, to take flight and return to my place of peace. I would pack up my son, and then my not quite yet ready for blending family, and head West. This year, that date coincided with a family trip to Europe.

So I gave up the notion of traveling when the tides talked the loudest to me. My consolation was that I could use my frequent flier miles to travel to Oregon with Davis, my son, for a quick trip on the heels of the European tour. Such was the plan, until an e-mail arrived in my inbox one day with a flier about his tryouts for the golf team.

To understand the importance of golf in Davis’ life, one should know it is of equal or greater importance to the tides. His father was a golfer, his grandfather and great grandfather. We held golf outings in memory of his father. And when it came time to spread his ashes, we did so with a 21 golf ball salute into the ocean. We still comb the beach looking for the return of any of those balls, but that would be a pointless as expecting his father to arise from out the ocean and walk back into out lives.

Davis had to make a decision on whether to travel to Oregon or stay at home and tryout for golf. And regrettably I would have to follow. In the back of my mind, my hope for peace washed away, carried out to become an actor on someone else’s stage that night. Sadly, Davis placed the call to his grandparents – he would tryout for the golf team. And they were ecstatic – there are dreams of families and then there are family’s dreams.

In the end, Davis would call from the car phone, to tell me he made the team. The coach had expanded the team by three places because the coach couldn’t make the cut. In Davis’s mind he questioned whether he would have made the first cut. In my mind, I knew that to choose an ocean over the greens, one must surely be in favor with the golfing gods, or at least a golfing dad.

Yet I still feel like I let Davis down. It has always been my job to help him remember his father, and for me to honor his memory as well. I could never have imagined that allowing Davis to choose between sandy beaches or sandy traps that he would have chosen the latter. And that this too would be a way, albeit a mature one, in which he could honor his father.

It is true, Mark was right. I can only write about loss. But I am writing so that I can let go of those moments of birth and death, son and father, and of course, my own rebirth as mother and writer, and give that moment away when necessary – even if I am only giving it back to me.

Make New Friends, But Keep the Old

6/10/08

We left behind the house on Observatory, a sunny yellow Victorian, with greenery everywhere, and its olden brick patio, moss ever so slightly creeping through the cracks. The stars were out, the moon in its banana form, with a few milky white clouds in the form a mouth, preparing to consume the moon. These are the nights when friendship is meant to be consumed, in between slurps of borscht, bites of Tuna Niçoise and chucks of blue cheese.

Our small group of writers had been together for one semester of Women Writing for (a) Change, but we had shared lifetimes, in the fifteen minutes that we often aired our writing. Inga, Allsyon, Naomi and I shared our values through our feedback and our compassion through our silence, or sometimes, from Naomi, the occasional, Ooohh.

It’s no secret in middle age we all struggle with making new friends. I have never given a thought to how close we were as writers and women, just always knew we were. And yet here we sat, Inga, the Danish mother of three, Allyson, so entrenched and liberated as a modern Jewish mother, now moving to support her husband’s new work at a Jewish Center, Naomi, a sixties-ish WASP, recently remarried, after time alone or spent advocating for the environment, and me with my Italian Catholic roots, my blended family, and my love for all things Oregon, and yet we could save the world in one night.

As I drove home with Allyson and Inga in the car, Inga riding shotgun – we had to explain that one to Naomi - my thoughts drifted to Lynn, my close friend now faraway in Phoenix. I never did call her back yesterday because the car pooling was horrendous, and then I needed time to get ready and be present for this outing with my writing friends.

I have been having a friend “crisis”, possibly just reimagining, which began shortly after my training within the Feminist Leadership Academy. This crisis was caused by a few events that occurred while I was proceeding through the weeks at the academy and only after last night could I put them into words that made sense.

The first event occurred while in conversation with my neighbors. I happened to be discussing my middle step daughter, a bright child with so much hope and desires for the future to truly find a way to eradicate hunger, educate the homeless. These are no small tasks and require not only a bright mind, but a solid core. Of course, I was bragging about her, because here was a child that lost her mom when she was 11. Her mother had been ill since she was six years old. For a young woman with poise, potential and compassion, I would brag on her all day. As we continued our discussion, one woman suggested that Shannon was a show off about her grades. (Shannon has a 4.6). And I said, “Of course, she should show off. I would show off too.” But then, I also said, “I find that hard to believe because she does not do that at home, at all.” At an all girls school, there are plenty would be happy to start that rumor anyhow.

As Allyson, whose mother died when she was young, declared later when retold this incident, “I’m an uber person too, and sometimes, I think it because my mom died when I was young, when she was young, I don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”

The second event occurred while in conversation with another close friend. We were eating lunch, discussing a separation between my sister and her husband. I simply shrugged my shoulders and said, “She doesn’t feel happy and isn’t sure this is the life she wants.” To that my girlfriend replied, “It sure seems like she has everything, what’s not to be happy about?” I replied, “There’s plenty in her background that she dealt with over the years that’s not my business to share, but everybody has their stuff.”

And from this I learned something else. When those who appear to have everything begin to “crack”, confusion reigns because someone is making a choice that may not be in line with societal expectations, but may certainly bring that person happiness from within.

These two events had caused me to rethink my relationships, in particular with women. While I missed my Monday night writing class, I had found solace in the company of women from my leadership classes. But with summer approaching and both classes and the academy ending, I missed those women more. When I am feeling lonely, my writing friends are the ones I think of. They are so authentic. They own their own problems and recognize when they are having problems they are simply pulling too many outside factors into themselves and not allowing themselves to be out in the world.

At the beginning of year, I embarked upon a journey to make new friends without the knowledge that Lynn would be moving. How refreshing to tell my young girls that I am making new friends. And I want to be intentional about my friendships. After writing the above stories, I see how easy it is to be unconscious and how quickly we can cause pain with our outbursts.

So this morning, I am taking time to write this, to put down in words, my commitment to be intentional with my new relationships, as well as the old ones, recognizing they could take months, years to build and they only take seconds to dismantle. For my longtime friends, for Allyson and Lynn, for Inga and Naomi, for Leigh and my FLA sisters, wherever their life will take them, I will put my energy into growing that which can be grown or cultivated regardless of how near or far.

Designated Mother

Mark is in Scotland, or perhaps his flight has already departed for home. I don’t deny him the joy of this trip, for he has learned that life is not measured by days on the calendar but by the miles of life he explores.

In this week of his absence, I have found myself to be a different mother, a kindler gentler mother. In the days of Marks’ presence, in particular with his girls, he had always been mother and father, there seemed little wiggle room for me. While my son Davis was content to go to whomever was available, for tossing balls or quizzing on homework, the girls still went straight to their dad. And oftentimes, I would just be the maid, the cook, the cleaning lady, the chauffeur, the signer of the many declarations of independence, but never mother.

This week, while Mark was rounding the greens of Scotland, I was traversing the state of Indiana to reach Cheryl in Illinois and return her home for a few weeks before she returned to Loyola for the summer. My stomach was often tight during this trip, on the way up, as I listened to classical music and the return trip, wondering what she and I would have to talk about. But she surprised me, I surprised myself by actually finding common ground, talking to her specific interests. She does not need me for advice, she needs me to just show up, keep her apprised of family events that she or may not attend to, and offer her dinner which she may or may not eat. But she is here, and she is home.

While the middle of the week was occupied with Davis and baseball and Davis and Strings concert, I found myself readily handing out cash to the girls, which most of the time, I don’t do. Shannon, here is money for groceries for Relay for Life. Kaitlyn, here is a ride back and forth from Kiera’s for the science project, waiting up, picking her up later than that time I suggested to eliminate the prospect of being such a taskmaster. The girls readily ate dinner and with aplomb entertained Davis’ grandparents, their step-grandparents, with their stories of boys and grades.

At week’s end, I was scheduled to pick up Kaitlyn for the OB/Gyn appointment. Since the beginning of her periods eighteen months ago, her periods have been irregular, lengthy, heavy flow, unpredictable. I understand her deceased mother also had this problem as a teenager, so we are having her checked out for thyroid, blood and hormonal issues. I have come into raising teenage girls without the benefit of giving birth to them, to knowing their bodies cradled in my arms, such that when the doctor asks, I too can respond with knowledge of their bodies. So all I can offer them is another woman who has a broader knowledge of bodies than me. We discuss periods and breasts and frequent urination with a teenager who is giggling during the doctor’s instruction for a self-exam of her breasts. I glance over at her breasts and see that they are more like the women of ancient times, round, full of life, whereas mine have disappeared, or are at least below my sightline. I tell her, I know that was not fun, but you may as well make friends with your body, so you don’t feel as if you are coming up against the enemy each time you are at the Ob/Gyn.

My final hours of interim single parenthood were filled with boys and baseball cancellations and sub sandwiches for dinner. For as much as I enjoy eating green and red and orange and yellow, I could not fathom another dinner without Mark, cooking at my side, or cooking in my place. Shannon called from the Relay for Life for Cancer Event, first to find out if we had received a letter from her school about academic awards. I confirmed this to be the case. Second, she wanted to tell me that the Relay luminaria ceremony would be held at 10:00 p.m.

During the ceremony, they turn out the lights in the stadium, light bags that spell out HOPE, and then light bags that have the names of those who have died from cancer or are still in the midst of treatments. Shannon had written two – one for Devin, and one for her mom – Susan.

I told her I wasn’t sure I could make it to the stadium, my legs were aching from running around all week, and my eyelids were finding themselves more relaxed when I closed them. But after a quick board game with Davis and a friend, I sprang into action, baked my “love cake” for Mother’s Day, and decided to join Shannon.

I called her from the snack stand at the stadium, and she walked around the track to meet me. Her friends joined in welcoming me, noting that they missed having Shannon’s dad there, as he was last year. We walked in the rain for a half-hour, then made our way up to the main tent. Danny Strunk, a survivor, talked about how he bears the burden of finding a quick cure for cancer. We all do. Shannon stood apart from me, but I could feel her sadness. Quick cure vs. long-term grief. Looking at Shannon’s face, it was an easy choice.

We continued our walk, noting each individual candle and name, first finding Devin’s name. She asked if I wanted to stop, but I shook off that notion, wanting her to know I was here to support her. I have made my share of memorials to Devin over time.

We walked on another 200 meters and found Susan’s name. Shannon and I stopped and she turned to me. I offered her my arms and tears. Soon we were joined by friends who stood by her side, crying in the rain. Why is it always easier for tears to come in the rain? As she sat by her mother’s candle, many more classmates stopped by to share in her sadness. As I stepped back, another group of classmates approach Shannon, only to be surprised by that fact that she had indeed lost her mom. Shannon, her friends and I walked on another lap around the track, slowly they all peeled off. It was she and I for one last lap.

Before we approached the main HOPE luminaria, the announcer was calling out names of those we were honoring. Shannon said, “I don’t know why they say in memory of, because I really don’t have much memory of her, maybe just at the end.” I nodded to agree. “I think they should all be in honor of…”

We continued around the oval and Shannon asked of us, “Let’s listen.” We walked more in silence, and instantly, upon reaching the stadium bleachers where the HOPE was spelled out, the announcer called out, “In memory of Devin Wick.”, then “In memory of Susan Manley.” Shannon and I looked at each other with near delight. A sign, I am always looking for one from above.

We found Devin’s name again and this time paused. I put my arm around her and said, “You know, when I was pregnant, Devin and I were convinced I was having a girl. He knew I wanted a Januzzi girl, really bad. But obviously that didn’t happen.” “And so now, you have three,” Shannon spoke out. “Yes, now, I have three – three bonus girls.”

We passed by her mom’s candle one more time, then she walked me to the entrance. We said our goodbyes and I love you’s. I cried all the way to the car. I was grateful for this time of Mark’s absence, not for the task of driving the kids all over the city for baseball, doctor’s appointments, school functions or Chicago. No, I was thankful that his trip allowed me to be, even for a week, the designated mother to my bonus girls.

Ski Dreams

A long time ago, in a land far far away, there was a little girl from Amherst, Ohio, who came home from school one day waving a flyer that said she could rent equipment and learn to ski all for the cost of seventy-dollars over six weeks. Her mother looked at her with a dazed look in her eyes, wondering, will my child be safe, and weighed that with the fact that her mother too had always wanted to ski, but girls didn’t do that in her day. So, with reluctance and prayer, her mother said ‘yes’. Her parents faithfully took her shopping for attire and patiently waited each week night for her return, when she would regale them with tales of diamonds, only these were black and double black.

Soon enough, the time came for her to pick a college. Her parents were not wealthy and not knowledgeable enough to encourage her to follow her dreams to attend school in Colorado. She settled on a college called the University of Akron. In those days, the university sported a ski club which once a year offered a trip to “Ski West”. She knew of this trip and dreamed of it often. When her junior year rolled around, she enlisted, without any friends to accompany her.

She would travel 2000 miles by bus through states she hardly remembered the capitals of, over a twenty-four hour timeframe, which eventually turned into 30 hours, after their expedition was besieged by a snowstorm somewhere in Kansas and as she would learn, all of Kansas, is really just nowhere. She would survive on her mother’s famous Italian Christmas cookies which had been packaged carefully in bubble wrap, bypassing the stops at McDonald’s.

On this trip, she would flirt with a football player who played for Gerry Faust, learn about grain alcohol, acquire more friends that she could have imagined, but mostly, she would fall in love with the West. And someday, when she grew up, really grew up, with a real job and a real life, she would come West for good.

On those mountains of Crested Butte, she would learn that skiing was meant to be a solitary sport, no matter who she rode the lifts with. And that someone else could tell her about the gentle slopes or steep drops, but no one else could really tell her how she would feel about them that day. And that she really could fly downhill, if she held your arms out just so. And in the woods and powder, she could tell the trees her secrets and they would be safe. She could stand quiet there, hear her heart beat, and the branches would flutter in rhythm to hers. And she would come to understand that winter would always be her season, one that not many others would claim, and she would claim it just for that reason

She went on to join the ski club out West for five more years, even after college, though by then, the allure of riding the bus had been lost in her youth. She would fly by plane, but miss those times when bonding happened in the backseat of the bus over cookies and cards.

She married a young man Devin, who knew little of the sport. But they would ski Big Sky and Mt. Hood and Mt. Bachelor all the same. And when the time came, she would finally make her move West, only this was further west than the Rockies, this was the Oregon Coast. The mountains would still move her, but the sea would still her heart.

In subsequent times, she would give birth to a young son, Davis, lose a husband to cancer and teach her son to ski in areas she could only describe as hills. Together, they would attempt Wyoming skiing and snowshoeing, but somehow, she was still deep enough in grief to resist the pull of the powder.

Years passed and she met someone else, Mark, who had also attended college in a land far far away. And he had three daughters, older than her son. And they decided to become a family, but it would not happen instantly or gently for her in the months that followed. His college friend would come to own a home in the mountains of Utah and invite him to ski. After amusing her with stories from his time on the slopes (and off) with his friends, he suggested they ski together, as a new family.

So, they would travel during a blustery January day to take respite on the slopes of place called Deer Valley. The first day would be filled with constant activity of moving the children from slope to slope. The second day would be filled with motherly frustration for her son who needed to leave the slopes and sleep instead and motherly angst for the teenagers need to be themselves. And wifely resentment for the husband who always found the glass and never cared if it were half-empty or full. And on the third day, the sun would rise over the mountains, first in flesh tones, then pink, then yellow and she would be happy again.

And she would ride the lift to the top of Flagstaff Mountain and stand tall, gazing at the other peaks in the range and think, everything is insurmountable and nothing is as well.

AJW
1/30/2008