Fences

Published in the Idaho State Journal in November 2013.

October is gone. I spend September dreading it and November missing it. My heart is never finished mountain biking for the season and Pocatello’s City Creek trails were particularly grand this year.

While zipping down the trails, I want to stop the leaves from dying. I want to catch them mid-air and scoop them off the ground and put them back on their branches one by one. I fail to relish the colors and beauty in life’s cycle of the season because the dying in October distracts and saddens me.

Matthew Shepard died in October.

Fifteen years ago, the 21 year old University of Wyoming college student was tied to a fence and beaten on a Wyoming prairie. He died six days later. His death was classified as a hate crime although a new book alleges it was about drugs and not his sexual orientation. If that were even slightly the case, I don’t feel suddenly safer.

The motive behind the ensuing protests was clear in the “God Hates Fags” signs and shouts.
As my bike winds down our City Creek trail and I’m funneled to the trailhead, a buck and rail fence greets and guides me back to my truck. The fence was built around 2005 by members of Pocatello’s Rotary Clubs. The project also included leveling the road and parking lot to make the trail system more accessible and inviting. And it is.

I was on the Board for the Portneuf Greenway Foundation at the time, and we talked about this effort a lot before I got to see the completed work. I was so excited but when I got my first glimpse, my breath caught. It’s the kind of fence Matthew Shepard died on.

That beautiful hand-made structure and symbol of community had come to symbolize something else to me that October of 1998. Footage of a Laramie fence peppered media outlets constantly. The serene snapshot of yellowing flora beneath it and the cold blue Wyoming sky behind it let gays and lesbians know we should never trust the stillness and calm.

A few weeks ago on October 11 petitions were turned into City Hall to put the non-discrimination ordinance on the May ballot. So much for stillness and calm. With the council’s vote last June, it felt like bits of the fences that separate us were coming down.

Shortly after the petitions were turned in, I went to the showing of “Matt Shepard was a Friend of Mine” at the ISU theater. There was video of Matthew’s fence. And, my breath caught again. After the movie, a friend and I walked around the quad and talked about life, love and Matthew’s murder. It’s so dark so soon in October. And cold. I put my shiny, feminine hoop earrings in my coat pocket as we walked arm in arm in the glow of the campus lights.

I dislike the cold and dark, but if it were colder, there’d be fewer people out. If it were darker, the few that were out might not notice we were two women walking with no boundary between us. That want for darkness was more pronounced having just watched the documentary.

I found myself wishing for a tall, protective fence surrounding the quad so we could walk in safety.I constantly scanned our surroundings with keen eyes while we walked and I told her what it was like for me in 1998 when news broke. It’s still so vivid. Matthew was tortured so ruthlessly that authorities originally thought he had been burned. A jogger discovered him the next morning.

The image of his arms spread, his body limp, and his head hanging is a permanent part of my psyche. I doubt I am alone in that. I rarely am. I don’t know if I read that Matthew was found that way or if this figure settled in my mind after years of hearing the gospel stories of another Shepherd who died so similarly. Extended. Vulnerable. Undeserving and misunderstood.

Matthew’s death was a turning point in my life. After my mom’s seven years of near silence about my sexual orientation, she cried openly. She admitted she secretly cried often out of disappointment but now there was fear and concern. The fanatical demonstrations in addition to Matthew’s murder demonstrated that I needed her love and protection because the world sure wasn’t going to give it to me anytime soon. The world was interested in fences of division rather than fences for protection.

From my perspective, it’s hard to tell the difference between fences that are intended to merely divide or mercilessly crucify. And when the intent is the former, it’s only a short walk along the prairie to get to the latter. From my perspective, there is little difference. The continuing efforts surrounding fences leave me feeling defenseless.

Fifteen Days in January

Published in the Idaho State Journal in January 2014.

While so many of us have been in a whirl wind of Nutcrackers, wrapping paper, and top ten lists of 2013, the family of 13-year-old Jahi McMath are facing the withdrawal of their daughter from life support. The Northern California girl suffered complications following a tonsillectomy, and two doctors have ruled her brain dead. I have been following her case with interest and sadness.

Jahi’s lungs and heart continue to function artificially because of a ventilator. The machine maintains her breathing which sustains a heartbeat. Doctors assert that with no brain activity at all, the girl would be unable to breathe on her own.

On a dark January day when I was 27 years old, my mom was placed on a similar respiratory life support. I had been an adult for some time. I owned a house, a truck, established a career and could drink right out of the milk carton if I wanted. In all of my adultness, I was nowhere near mature enough to address the questions before me. Mom had no living will.

Jahi and my mom’s scenarios are different in two critical ways. First, Jahi is a minor and her parents are unequivocally in charge of decisions regarding her medical care. My heart is heavy for their impending loss and upcoming decisions which are compounded by their disagreement with doctors about her prognosis.

The second stark difference between my mother’s and Jahi’s hospitalization is that my mom wasn’t declared brain dead. Her lungs and heart were failing, but her brain activity on the monitors lit up the hospital room.  Winter inversions and air pollutants on top of her years of smoking culminated just after New Year’s Day in 2000 when this nightmare began.

A doctor asked me about a living will. He was understandably exasperated when I said that she did not have one. I asked Mom throughout her terminal illness to write one as well as a general will, but she cut me off and refused to discuss it past a few excuses.

She didn’t want to spend the money on attorney’s fees.  I was her only heir, so there shouldn’t be any questions. She was an atheist who didn’t believe in an afterlife so she wanted to be hooked up to any and every machine indefinitely. Her wonderful life on this earth was it and she wanted to extend it as long as possible. End of discussion.

Since Mom had been verbally clear with me about her wishes, I told her medical team that despite any of their professional opinions about the heartiness of her heart and lungs, there was no point in further conversation.

The doctors continued a regimen of breathing treatments, medicine and tweaking the ventilator settings while Mom remained unconscious in the ICU. I would visit her in the morning before work, at lunch and then I’d sit with her at night and watch TV.

On the fifteenth day when I walked into her room before work, she was sitting up and watching Good Morning, America. It scared the heck out of me. I thought for an instant I was going mad. I couldn’t possibly trust my eyes. She had a breathing mask on and cheerily turned and waved with an atrophied, misshapen hand.

Her voice was raspy because she’d had a tube in her throat for so long, but indeed her brain was churning. She told me I was going to be late for work and wanted an update on her Green Bay Packers and Chicago Bears.

My Decembers are flooded with birthday and Christmas gifts, but the best gift I ever received began that January. I got another entire year to the day with my mom after her fifteen days on life support. She gave me another present in the months that followed in a notarized living will.

There is no better time than the present to establish a living will, and making those decisions so your loved ones don’t have to is truly a gift. I had been skeptical of life support means and success before my mom’s experience, but those days persuaded me.   I have outlined in my living will that I can be on life support for no more than fifteen days.

The Truth About My Treetopper

Published in the Idaho State Journal in December 2013.

A friend of mine gleefully wrote that her family got a new tree topper this year. I smiled because her tone rang happy, but I was struck with a faint and brief tinge of sadness. Her family didn't already have a tree topper? How sad.

My Christmas tree topper is on the top ten list of things I'd rush to save in a fire. She'd be after my box turtle but before the high school photo albums when my hair looked like road kill.

Her name is Angel. Like a child who comes into a family knowing the family dog as an older sibling, I knew Angel.

My childhood visions are as crisp as these winter days. I remember staring up at her so high and close to the ceiling and worried she would fall. My mom told me over and over that her wings would save her. If I was still worried, though, I could stay by the tree and make sure she was safe. I should call up to her, "don't fall, Angel!"

So I did. I whispered it over and over while I slouched by the tree in my footsy pajamas. My most still moments of my childhood were during my silent watch under Angel by night. I prefer to characterize my mom as smart here rather than manipulative.

Angel is about 5 inches tall. She's wearing a form-fitting, elegant red velvet dress. It's a short sleeved, short dress that showcases Angel's flawless arms and legs. Her arms are outstretched with one hand open and the other with a pointed finger as if she's about to direct a chorus of other angels in joyful Christmas song. Her golden wings behind her reflect the tree's lights and give her a magical, colorful aura.

Angel’s plastic, molded hair is in a neat bun. Her rosy cheeks and genuine smile of her 1970's doll face are warm and innocent. She'd never be cast in a horror film.

Before Wonder Woman flew in on her invisible plane, I wanted to grow up and be Angel.

The truth is Angel might be Tinkerbell. Before some so-called-friends insisted I examine the resemblance, I'd never considered she was anyone other than beautiful Angel. These friends have said things like, "that's not a dress; it’s barely a cocktail napkin". They might as well have told me there is no Santa.

The truth is her outfit resembles a Vegas strip waitress uniform, only not quite as tasteful. Her belt to help hold her wings is a dingy, green rubber band probably from a December 1993 edition of the Idaho State Journal. Her wings hold bits of calcified hot glue on her back and two nails to keep them attached. They are cardboard more flimsy than a cereal box spray painted faux-classy gold. It’s likely lead-based.

Some people think Angel is ugly and tacky. They've called her a tart, a floozy, a bimbo, and a Jezebel in jest. I suppose if you didn't grow up with Angel, you might not see that same magic, beauty and innocence I do. I suppose your truths about Angel might be different than mine.

Contrary to the word's definition, sometimes truth depends on age, faith and the chance angels in an out of our lives. People honor many different truths this time of year, and for me, the key in defining, believing, and celebrating my truths unlocks my endeavors to appreciate others'. Roots of my holiday truths and traditions are found in Rudolph, Charlie Brown, the Grinch, the Nativity and my sweet tree topper, Angel.

Whatever people’s truths are this holiday season, I wish for a peace in the past, a joy in the present, and a hope in the future. ‘Tis the season after all.

Smiling's My Favorite

Published in the Idaho State Journal in December, 2013.

My favorite Christmas movie is “Elf”. Will Ferrell’s Buddy the Elf is sophomoric and funny. He is optimistic and sincere, and his outfit is full of cheer. He’s like me on my best days. I can feel myself smile throughout the flick.

I’m a smiley person. So much so, that I’m starting to get wrinkles around my eyes which stopped a grin in its tracks when I spotted them the other day.  A scowl swooped in. I’m going to end up with even more kinks in my forehead due to my furrowed brow if I don’t accept these lines quickly. There are days I fight getting older like a temperamental toddler who didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas.  

These fits brew every holiday season because my birthday is days before Christmas. Amidst the holiday cheer and gift giving, I take stock of how I’m aging. I guess wrinkles will come regardless, and I’m darn lucky for each birthday I have and my life of smiles.

I had a conversation with 13 year old boy named Toby and his mom Sara this week about smiling. Sara and I share a mutual friend, and when we found ourselves miles apart in Massachusetts, we met for dinner.  Sara and Toby made a five hour drive from Rochester, New York and were on their way to the National Education for Assistance Dogs Services (NEADS) headquarters. Toby is getting a service dog, a yellow lab named Sophie.  

I knew Sara had a 13 year old son, but I didn’t’ know anything about him, let alone that he could benefit from a service dog.  I arrived at the restaurant before them, and I watched from the window as Sara retrieved Toby’s walker from the back of their Subaru. While he finagled his way out of the car in the cold, dark parking lot, I was grateful the eastern winter hadn’t fully descended yet. My daily activities are exacerbated with ice and snow. I can’t imagine his.

Over our meal, Sara explained that Toby was due to be born in July but when she experienced a sudden onset of severe eclampsia during her pregnancy, he arrived in March. Toby interjected with a crooked smile, “I’m half baked!”  It took me a minute to get it. He didn’t stay in the oven long enough.

Toby has cerebral palsy (CP).  Sara further explained how every person with CP has different challenges. There are hiccups in the communication between the brain and muscles, and which muscles are involved varies for everyone. Toby’s legs don’t work the way mine do and he has an upper body lean because his back muscles didn’t fully develop. He can hold himself upright, has use of his arms and is entirely cognitive and then some. The kid is funny, curious and resilient.

Sara asked me to tell Toby about my cow suits. Although this was the first time we had met in person, Sara and I have chatted over Facebook, and she follows my cow suit adventures in my blog.

I started a blog last spring called “Cow Suit Saturday” to capture interactions and reactions when everyday life is transformed from a cow suit.

I told Toby how I got my first suit in the early 90’s. His eyebrows raised and I’m sure he thought “wow, you’re old,” but he politely listened.  I relayed how after wearing cow suits over the years, I realized people reacted and treated me so differently. People smile at me reflexively. And then I smile. Then they smile bigger and a feedback loop is engaged. This occurrence is a disaster in electrical control systems, but it’s so sweet in social interaction.  

I said to Toby, “Imagine me sitting across from you in this booth right now in a cow suit. Wouldn’t you smile at a grown woman in one-piece flannel, rubber udders and floppy ears?”  He giggled. And his mom almost whispered across the table.  “That’s why I’m excited for the dog. People will smile at him.” Sweet blond Sophie is about to reshape all of Toby’s daily interactions with people.

Toby and Sara will stay at the NEADS facility for some time while Toby bonds with his new companion and they are trained on the ins and outs of having a service dog.  The day they take Toby home happens to be my birthday when I have exciting plans for another Cow Suit Saturday. Toby and I will be across the country from each other experiencing joyful and refreshing smiles, both in ourselves and from others.

‘Tis the season of joy and as Buddy the Elf said, “I just like to smile, smiling’s my favorite.”  Careful, Toby. Your new friend is going to give you wrinkles. Enjoy them.

Sara, Toby and I after dinner in New England.

 

JFK's Invitation

Published in the Idaho State Journal in November 2013.
 

Last Sunday the Journal began its series marking the 50^th anniversary of JFK’s assassination.  I spent this past week in New England, but I kept up with the article online.  I confess. I read some of the pieces on my phone from a Dunkin’ Donuts.  There may still be traces of powdered sugar on my phone case.

By sheer happenstance with a bid on Priceline, I spent last weekend in our country’s longest continuously operating hotel in downtown Boston. The Omni Parker House holds numerous connections to President Kennedy.

It was the site of JFK’s first public speech at the age of seven. He hopped up on a chair in the Press Room during a birthday party for his grandfather and former Boston mayor, John “Honey-Fitz” Fitzgerald. He proposed to Jackie in the hotel restaurant, held his bachelor party there, and later announced his candidacy for Congress in that same Press Room.  The entire hotel oozed a rich, historical energy.

My political leanings were greatly influenced by my mother whose own leanings were greatly influenced by JFK.  She was 19 years old when he was inaugurated on January 20, 1961. She spoke about her college crush on the handsome 35^th president and what an impact his Inauguration Day speech had on her. Ironically, she died exactly 40 years after that famed day during George W. Bush’s first inauguration.  I always take a personal holiday when an inauguration falls on a weekday for some quality reflection on our country’s political and my personal past, present and future.

JFK’s Inauguration speech has become titled, “Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for You.” The most significant part of his appeal comes in his next words:  “Ask what you can do for your country.” The key, though, in those words is not in the doing but rather in the asking. There is an unspoken element following JFK’s directing us to ask of imploring us to listen.

Immediately we may think of doing for our country in the form of our armed services, but “country” extends to our professions, communities, churches, and schools. It’s one thing to ask what we can do, but it’s another thing entirely to truly hear what is needed in these arenas and follow through. Sometimes we are fortunate when our duties and desires intersect.

I volunteered as a math club coach for twelve years at the Pocatello Community Charter School (PCCS). This is my first year in as long not working with the mathletes, and I miss it and them terribly. Over a decade ago, the principal of the school learned about the MATHCOUNTS® program and her school needed a coach. What a fabulous opportunity for me!

Volunteering as a middle school math coach gave me the chance to serve a school, its students and also my profession in hopefully sparking an interest in engineering.  Working with kids while encouraging a love of math encompassed a doing for others where my interests lie and my talents blossomed.  I’ve silently thought of my years as a math coach as my selfish service.  The school’s need for a coach and my desire and ability to help struck an ideal balance.

I had a lot of conversations with the former PCCS principal about volunteering and service throughout both of our tenures at the school.  PCCS was founded over fifteen years ago by parent volunteers who felt that volunteering and service should be a key component of their children’s education. Although much of the school’s culture is centered on service as a part of their curriculum, their former principal often spoke of the continuous need for volunteers.  Volunteering trends ebb and flow but needs are constant.   

One of the school’s founders gave me her assessment. Parents who volunteer feel ownership and inclusion, and as a result, so do their children. Parents who volunteer are closely connected to each other, the teachers, and the children and a foundation for a culture of community is established. As volunteering wanes, so does the richness of the experience for all involved.

As we remember John F. Kennedy and his inspirational words, I don’t think he was simply instructing us to ask what we can do. He was inviting us to listen and enrich our lives by becoming involved.

Ten Feet from Wonder Woman

Published in the Idaho State Journal in November 2013.

Eight years ago, I had a severe adverse reaction to the antibiotic Levaquin. I experienced micro-tears in both of my Achilles tendons and widespread joint and tendon pain.  The physical pain lasted a good four to five years, but the emotional repercussions lasted longer. As someone who copes with life’s stresses through exercise and as a has-been athlete who loves the endorphin chase, the ordeal was both physically and mentally crippling. Why couldn’t I have been Wonder Woman?

Before now, I would have said, I “suffered” a reaction, but I am tired of being a victim. It’s time to move on and let Levaquin go. I’ve felt that part of this moving on would entail meeting a fellow “victim” in person whom I met on a Yahoo message board in 2005. Her name is Sally. She’s in her 60’s and she is a professional clown in Connecticut.

I got my chance to meet Sally a couple Sundays ago. I arranged to meet her on a Sunday because she clowns on most Saturdays.  I had never been to Connecticut, so I wanted to make an adventure out of my entire weekend. The stars did a great job helping me.

I stayed at a charming bed and breakfast in Mystic, Connecticut where the 1988 Julia Roberts movie “Mystic Pizza” was filmed.  The changing leaves, the autumn sun and the ripples of the Connecticut sea were like a movie backdrop indeed. I needed to do laundry Saturday morning, so I headed to a laundromat located in a quaint shopping village nearby.

The only chain store I noticed was a Dunkin Donuts. With my recent super hero strength, I continued to resist the pull of this New England temptress. After loading the washers, I wandered the shops. I bought a Boston Red Sox cap because being immersed in the World Series fanfare has transformed me into a fan of their red, white and blue.

I stumbled upon the Mystic Visitor Center, so I stopped in for ideas for the rest of my day. While looking over the brochures, I noticed a few for area casinos. I love black jack and craps, but I have never gone to a casino alone. That seemed weird. I left with a variety of leaflets to scan while my clothes spun.

After reading about the swanky Mohegan Sun Casino, I decided to surf Facebook and Twitter on my phone. As I scrolled along, I noticed a tweet from Lynda Carter. I should not have to add here that she is the actress who played Wonder Woman in the 1970’s TV show.  She is my childhood idol who now spends her time with cameo acting appearances, campaigning for human rights and concert engagements.  I about fell out of the white plastic laundromat chair as I read Lynda’s words:

“What a great night in NYC! Thanks to everyone who came out for the show last night. We had a blast. On to Mohegan Sun!”

Are you kidding me? Lynda Carter. Wonder Woman. Performing in concert less than 20 minutes from me. My jaw dropped in wonder and I knew I better get over the weirdness of going out alone.

“Wonder Woman” aired for three seasons starting when I was four. I was positive that I was going to grow up and be just like her. I never got my lasso and bracelets but those volleyball shorts came quite close to hers.  And speaking of volleyball, fortunately I also never acquired a Wonder Woman-esque figure because diving on the gym floor like I did would have been impossible.

I went to the concert and wound up at a table with some ladies my age who also grew up wearing Wonder Woman underroos, lassoing their family pets and wearing tin foil bracelets.  There wasn’t a rush of the stage, but we maturely meandered closer for Lynda’s finale. I was ten feet from Wonder Woman!

My friends have inundated me with questions. Did you meet her? Did you get a picture with her? Did she sign your Wonder Woman Converse sneakers? No, no and no! People, I don’t want to meet Lynda Carter. Are you crazy?  I don’t want to give her a chance to disappoint me. What if she is dismissive or flighty? What if she is rude? What if she is… human?

I am surrounded by enough human in my everyday life. I have enough human of my own. I don’t need to know that Wonder Woman is human, too. Maintaining her image of perfection continues to give me something to believe in and aspire to. I know I could never embody all that Lynda Carter has in my youthful mind, but it’s fun to dream. I’ll always be at least ten feet from Wonder Woman.

I Can Wear Perfume to Church Again

Published in the Idaho State Journal in November 2013.

If Church were on Facebook, our relationship status would be, “It’s complicated.” I imagine my relationship with Church is not uncommon, but it’s not something that’s talked about openly around here. Maybe when we get to know each other a little better, we can talk about it. For now, though, it’s snippets and glimpses into Church and me.

I’ve gone to the Trinity Episcopal Church rather regularly since my former partner’s mother moved here ten years ago after being widowed. Wow. I hadn’t realized it’s been that long. 

The things I like about this church include: a service similar to the Lutheran one I grew up in, a GLBT friendly doctrine and congregation, and congregants who respect the unofficial seating chart so I get my exact same spot each week. I’m going to miss a few weeks due to out of town work, so I hope one of the little old ladies has my back while I’m gone.

A 92 year old gal named Dottie has sat in the pew with me for the last few months. Dottie and her husband moved here a few years ago to be close to their son and daughter in law. I first met their “kids” about 15 years ago through my hairdresser because we had the same cutting schedule. They’ve been a friendly Pocatello staple for me since.

When Dottie and her husband arrived, they’d sit together toward the front on the left while their son and daughter-in-law sang in the choir. My group sits in the back on the right. Church isn’t my college physics class. I’m not getting called on or graded, so I am fine to sit in the back.

There were a few months when Dottie’s husband wasn’t able to make it to church, so she sat by herself in their same spot. On one of those Sundays, she was kneeling in the communion line ahead of me. She had just taken her communion and was getting out of her kneel, when I noticed her start to stumble. I could retell this as if I summoned my old volleyball-digging swiftness in swooping in to catch her, but really, I just happened to be the one standing there to catch her fall. We were fast friends after that.

When Dottie’s husband passed away, she joined our pew.  As she has aged, her health has naturally become challenged. She has a heart valve replacement due to be repaired, but she is too old for the surgery. She was put on oxygen because her heart isn’t strong enough to keep her levels up where they need to be.  She stopped going up for communion, but rather the priest would come to her in the chapel.

When Dottie started needing oxygen, I quit wearing perfume to church. When my mom was on oxygen, she would have to leave full shopping carts in stores when she encountered someone with thick cologne. Mom asked me to wear unscented deodorant around her, and she’d give me scent-free fabric softeners because the odors were too strong. Sometimes I wouldn’t wear deodorant to church, but that’s risky with all the sweating going on in the pews.

Dottie’s son and daughter in law retired and recently moved to Arizona. A goodbye luncheon was held for them and I was so sad to miss it. This trip signaled Dottie’s moving out of her own place and into an assisted living facility.  

I have never had those conversations, but I can imagine their difficulty both from Dottie’s perspective as well as her kids’. Just because that’s how it’s supposed to go in life doesn’t make it any easier. If fact, most of the things that are supposed to happen in life are just plain difficult.

I’ve heard the people in her new retirement home were cliquish at first, but she’s started to make a few friends. I hope so. She’s terrific.  I will miss the soothing pulsing of Dottie’s oxygen tank in church and her sweet smile as she made way for me to walk past her for communion. I can wear perfume to church again, but I probably won’t for a while.

The Ones You Want to Keep

Published in the Idaho State Journal in October 2013.

A cheerful post card reminder from my dentist’s office came this month. OK, last month. It’s time for a teeth cleaning and check up. I love going to the dentist. Really. There wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm in that statement. Or in that one. I’ve just been busy.

I began going to this dentist when I was four years old. I remember the Dr. Seuss books in the waiting room, the golden shag carpet of his old office, and posing for toothy Polaroid’s when I didn’t have a cavity. Having my picture taken was plenty incentive to brush, but I also loved the box of erasers and bouncy balls. MarJean, the receptionist, is one of about five people that can still get away with calling me Billie Jo.

My dentist doesn’t see as many patients as he used to, but I can tell he stops in the office now and then. The Karen Carpenter and Barry Manilow crooning over the speakers give him away. Nowadays I see his son or son in law who have joined his practice. They have maintained that homey comfort and I always look forward to my visits with them.

There used to be a sign above one of the exam room thresholds. It was precisely in my field of vision from the reclined, too-big chair. I would look past my toes and study the handmade wooden plaque with a 1970’s hippie font and caked-on shellac.

“You don’t have to floss all your teeth—just the ones you want to keep.”

I’m a diligent teeth-flosser during corn on the cob and steak grilling season and during the month between receiving the postcard and my check up. If I floss for a month straight, surely they will think I have flossed every day since I saw them last.

Flossing is on the same list as watering the plants, cleaning my bike after muddy rides, and sending “thank you” notes. Sometimes these happen. Sometimes they don’t. I recognize the need. My intentions are good. My follow-through ebbs and flows and I could stand to take care of all of them better.

I have three Hawaiian shirts older than a fifth grader that I always wash on delicate and air dry. I hand wash the ice cream scoop and pizza cutter that once belonged to my grandmother, and I get an annual mammogram because I definitely want to keep those. With my box turtle having just celebrated his 30th birthday, it’s clear that I get the “care and keeping” concept with many things.

There are days I miss the memo, though. I feel like a participating drone in an overly consumerist and easily bored society, and I’m not sure how to step out of the habituated herd.

As the school year began, parents everywhere admonished their children, “you get one backpack this year, so take care of it.” But how many purses do their moms go through?

“You need to make these shoes last through the fall until we can afford boots and no mud puddles!” How many pairs of hunting boots or gym shoes do we really need?

We plead with kids to take care of things, but do we model the same behavior? With things? With people?

Hoping for behaviors in the next generation is futile if we can’t change them in our own. We lose things we wish we’d taken better care of. We get new things before we need them and without first caring for the old. We get hurried and careless, but then it’s tricky to draw upon a success story because sometimes we take as good of care as we possibly can and things are lost regardless.

I have lost plants, wool sweaters, bike components and friendships because I didn’t take care of them, but at least I still have my teeth—most of them anyway.

I guess I should take care of this lingering to-do list item and schedule my appointment. MarJean and the rest of the folks at my dentist’s office have done a wonderful job taking care of me for over three decades. You’d think they want to keep me.

The Other Sides of Pink

Published in the Idaho State Journal in October 2013.

After working in New England for a stint, today started with a 4:30am alarm to catch a 7:00 flight out of Boston’s Logan Airport.

Boston is busy. It is history and traffic and marathons and Cheers. I have become acquainted with the Freedom Trail, the Italian food of the North End and the tangled mess of roads and tunnels. I’ve also found my inner strength to walk by the Dunkin’ Donuts in the airport terminal with only minor tongue twitches and pangs.  Boston’s airport has become familiar, but today it was different. All of the Delta employees’ uniforms have a splash of pink.

One gate representative had a silky pink handkerchief in his breast pocket and another, a bold distinguished rosy tie. Ha!  And as I type on the plane, the flight attendant announces, “In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, we are offering pink lemonade for a $2 donation to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. We also have a pink lady available, which is a cold cocktail with vodka and lemonade.”  It is 5:30am back home.  A pink lady is not going to increase my awareness of anything at this hour. Coffee, please.

I have known a number of women personally and peripherally who have had breast cancer. Some have survived. Some have not. I’ve hit the age of annual mammograms, and now I understand the comparison to lying on a cold cement floor and having a Ford F150 roll right on over the girls. Contemplating the alternatives makes this bearable.

A few Decembers ago, I was at a Christmas party working on my social skills and party banter when I struck up a conversation with a friend who is a gynecologist. Nothing will test your social skills like chatting with a gynecologist. My birthday falls during the week before Christmas, so that’s easy and fun to talk about—for me anyway. The conversation went something like this.

Dr: How are you?

Me: Great! In addition to the holidays, it’s also my birthday season so great days are easy to come by. How are you?

Dr: Well, you know how October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month? Well, that means I spend November and December telling a lot of women that their tests came back positive.  This was a rough week. There were a lot of “positives”. She gestured with fingered quotes and a pained grimace at the biting sarcasm.

Whoa. I had never considered this side of the pink. That is when I’d like to have an ice cold pink lady in each hand, one to share and one to swig. We talked a bit more about cancer and an awareness month.  She wished it could be a different month, but when is a good time to tell someone they have cancer? When is a good time to hear it? There are no good times, but there is a better time: early.

When she gets to diagnose someone early, she can better hold the same hope that becomes the one-word mantra of every cancer patient and their loved ones.

Which of my friends’ stories do I tell here? There are too many for this space. Within months of my 20 year high school reunion, two of my classmates who attended had double mastectomies. It was staggering to read their trials on Facebook so soon after our weekend reminiscing about our immortal youth. I’ve known one of these women since third grade and the other, Katie, since seventh.

Katie had her third baby this July. She’s shared her thrills as well as her anguish of guilt and feeling judged for not being able to breast feed. She moved from New England to Texas following her mastectomy and before the little guy’s birth, so her new medical team didn’t know her history. The lactation consultant was just doing her job when she popped in to see how things were going.  My dear friend continued on auto-pilot with a cordial explanation of why there was no lactating going on.  They are gone.

But Katie is here, and she is another side of all this pink.

We will wear ribbons this month. We’ll give a few extra bucks here the and there. Manly men among us will don sharp pink dress shirts and there will be races and drives and billboards, oh my. If this sea of pink makes you a little nauseous, you’ll smirk or scream when you reach for the pepto bismol. Eeek! More pink!

Will a color save a life or a breast? Will a ribbon? Will a newspaper? Will a rhyming tagline? Well, when it’s “self exams and mammograms” the latter just might.

The Idaho Wave

Published in the Idaho State Journal in October 2013.

I embarked upon my personal bike tour this past weekend in lieu of the Tour de Vin. Boy oh boy, is the Portneuf Gap beautiful. I cycled south on Bannock Highway to the cement plant in Inkom. I intended to continue on to McCammon but my tired thighs and the day’s to-do list had me head back along Old Hwy 91 after a snack in the Inkom City Park. I love those Idaho back roads.

When I was a kid my dad knew every back road and fishing hole within 90 miles of Lava Hot Springs. As an aside, I’d like to point out that this “Lava” is pronounced with a short “a” as in “lad”, not a schwa sound like in “lawn.” The relaxation and calm evoked in childhood memories of back road adventures and Lava are violently disrupted when people mispronounce it.  

When I was really little, Dad used to take me on drives to scout out fishing and hunting spots.  This was before seat belts. I stood and wobbled on the passenger side as his truck crawled along the dusty roads. The windows were always down, and the drives were quiet. He was surrounded by a continuous stream of booming country music while running his bar, so he protected his personal silence.

I was not a still kid. I probably drove him batty. Luckily he was charmed by my angelic red-headed Dorothy Hamill haircut, and he could bargain for brief bouts of stillness in sharing his pastel orange circus peanut candies. They tasted like perfume. But I liked their bounciness in my mouth, and I ate them on our drives to be like my dad.  I’d sneak sips of his Budweiser to be like him, too, but Mom put the kibosh on that quickly.

I watched how he drove. His left elbow rested on the door’s window frame and he held a cigarette or fiddled with his false teeth. His right hand was a top the wheel at 12’o’clock. He didn’t grip it, but rather rested the heel of his hand with his fingers loosely draped toward the hood. He had strong square hands.  I’ve got his hands.

When we’d pass people, he’d keep the heel of his palm on the top of the wheel, but raise all five fingers in a slow, purposeful wave.  His hand had the same cadence with every car that passed. A closed mouth, wide-eyed smile complemented each gesture.

While he was working, I would slip into his truck in the parking lot of the Lava Lounge and pretend to drive like him. I hauled an old mop bucket out so I could step up and reach the door handle.  Then I’d situate the bucket upside down on the driver’s seat and climb up so I could see above the dash.

My wing span wasn’t long enough to hold the wheel where he did and reach my other elbow to the window.  I adapted the pose but made sure my waving hand was perfectly placed. From his parked truck just off Lava’s Main Street, I’d wave to people heading to and from the hot pools.  Sometimes I’d forget the slowness and ease and I’d find myself doing an over-exuberant kid wave which, although notable in its own right, is very different than the slow, easy Idaho wave I picked up from Dad.

I lost count of the Idaho waves I collected on my bike ride last weekend. It’s a little tricky to manage from road bike handlebars, but you better believe I waved, too.  

With our recent rain, the Gap was greener than usual for this time of year, but it’s still a beauty to behold. The leaves in the weekends to come will be a perfect backdrop for people to perfect the Idaho wave.

If you’re not a hunter or if you’re new to the area or if it’s just been a while, I encourage you to hop in your car or truck or on your bike or motorcycle and hit some Idaho back roads this fall. Whether you go alone, with a partner or the whole family, a serene tour with friendly waves scattered about is so grounding. It’s so cleansing.  It’s so Idaho.  

Cat Poop and the Cause of Death

Published in the Idaho State Journal in September 2013.

It takes me longer than it should to distinguish left from right. I can’t tell time on an analog clock without audibly counting 5, 10, 15, 20, and I squint and rotate pages to decipher cursive writing. Although cursive usually eludes me, the scribbled in blanks on my dad’s death certificate couldn’t be more clear: “Bronchogenic Carcinoma” caused by “Cigarette Smoking.”

When I was born in 1972, my parents owned a bar and restaurant in Lava Hot Springs. Years working in the bar took its toll on my dad. Between the second hand smoke and the two-plus packs a day, his lungs didn’t stand a chance. As a small town bar owner, he didn’t have a corporate insurance plan, so he never went to the doctor.

In the spring of 1985 after being sick all winter, he finally made the trek to Pocatello to see a doctor. Dad’s lungs were such a mess they couldn’t begin to make a diagnosis, so he was sent to the Veteran’s hospital in Salt Lake.

The VA doctors diagnosed cancer in his left lung and emphysema in the other. When they went in to remove the cancerous one, the infection was so bad and untreated for so long that they had to chisel calcified pus away from his ribs to get the lung out. They sent him home with a drain tube sticking out of his chest.

My folks divorced in ’76, but maintained an amicable relationship, so he moved in with us so we could take care of him. Seventh grade was weird anyway, and it got weirder with my sick dad on the couch when I hadn’t lived with him for 10 years.

Toward the end of that school year, he deteriorated and had to return to Salt Lake. My mom did a masterful job of being honest about his impending death while incorporating some fun on our weekends to see him. One of the greatest gifts was learning so young that life is an unavoidable mixture of fun and tragedy. Gee, thanks, Mom and Dad and cigarette manufacturers.

I didn’t feel as sorry for him as I should because it was his choice to smoke. It was his choice to wither away in front of his kid and never get to see her high school years or know her as an adult. I wasn’t exactly angry at him because I grew up knowing him as a smoker. It was a part of him. When someone dies mountain climbing or in any extreme sport, we tell ourselves they died doing what they loved. Well, my dad loved a fresh cigarette, and so did my mom.

One of the reasons my mom chose a career in social work was because smoking was allowed in state buildings and cars in the 1960’s. She considered being an English teacher like my grandmother, but she couldn’t have smoked during the school day. I thought for sure after my dad died, she’d quit. Nope.

Mom was hospitalized with heart and lung problems my ninth grade year and the doctors asked her who I would live with when she died. Not “if”, but “when”. Finally, she was ready to try quitting.
She tried quitting cold turkey and failed. She tried Nicorette gum and failed. She joined a support group where the facilitator directed attendees to imagine the cigarette as something disgusting. Mom chose cat poop. It was her fierce visualization of putting cat poop between her fingers and smelling the odor as she brought it to her lips that led to her quitting.

Eventually her years of smoking tracked her down, too. After an emphysema diagnosis and five years on oxygen, I had to call an ambulance when she couldn’t catch her breath. I rode in the ambulance stunned. At the ER, I watched the doctors rush to intubate when her eyes rolled back and she started to arrest. As they corralled me out of the room, I remember thinking, “This needs to be an anti-smoking ad.”

Even though it killed my folks, I still support other people’s right and choice to smoke. Sure, I wish people would make different choices. I wish they could see Ebenezer Scrooge’s Ghost of Smoking Yet to Come in my parents’ deaths and draw resolve for the arsenal of weapons needed to fight this addiction. But I hesitate to be too vocal when it’s something that really doesn’t affect me. (Increased insurance costs due to smokers are a conversation for another day.)

Second hand smoke does affect me, however. I fully support the ISU smoking ban and the proposed city ban. A quote in this month’s Pocatello Magazine article “Smoke Free Idaho” by Sylvia Hernandez captures my sentiment the best. “Smoking is optional, whereas breathing is not.”

Behold the Turtle

Published in the Idaho State Journal in September, 2013.

My pet box turtle joined my family 30 years ago after a trip to the Noah’s Ark pet store at the Pine Ridge Mall in Chubbuck. They told us he was a girl, but I learned differently when he showcased his manhood during a show and tell at school a couple months later. Billie is a gender neutral name, so I decided Myrtle could be, too.


For years I longed for a pet but due to allergies and my mom’s slight income, I was limited to a Strawberry Shortcake doll and a Good Luck Care Bear. I was so excited at finally having a pet that I immersed myself in turtle ownership.

I became known as the “turtle girl.” Within Myrtle’s first year, I had accumulated over 100 turtle figurines, trinkets and stickers. I snuck him in the suitcase on a trip to Yellowstone. I carted him around the neighborhood in my bike basket, and I built houses for him out of Lincoln Logs. He loved hanging out with Strawberry Shortcake and Good Luck Care Bear but not in a snow fort.

At school I wrote poems, short stories and essays about the wonders of a pet turtle. They don’t bark, shed, claw the furniture or make messes in the house. I caution parents before running out and securing a reptile, however, because they are plenty of work, and you’ll be in for a lifetime commitment.

For Myrtle’s first birthday, I wanted to wear my love of turtles around town and share it with everyone. I switched into helpfulness-overdrive to earn money for a turtle T-shirt. When I’d earned enough mowing lawns, hauling firewood and babysitting, I rode my bike to T-Shirts Plus at the same mall to buy a custom-made shirt. I already had in mind that I would put “I [heart] TURTLES” on the back with some sort of turtle screen on the front.
The only decal in the shop was a cartoon that said “Behold the turtle: It makes progress only when it sticks its neck out.” Perfect.

My dad died when I was 13 and my mom when I was 28. Myrtle has been in my life longer than either of my parents. He’s my rock. He’s the impetus for my two tattoos. He’s a source of whimsy and identity and he’s captured in my turtle-loving license plate.

Last April when the Pocatello City Council held hearings regarding an ordinance prohibiting discrimination based on gender expression and sexual orientation, the Journal received an influx of letters to the editor. One was written protesting an out of town influence appearing at the meetings. The author recounted stepping out of a council session and into the parking lot to note the license plates of the vehicles in attendance. He spoke in disgust of plates from different counties and states as well as the number of vanity plates that left him wondering who these supporters were.

As his words settled into comprehension, my rock, my whimsy and my identity transformed into a target.

I’m not sure if the author’s intent was to evoke a panic in many supporters of the ordinance, but he did. I talked with a number of friends and acquaintances who considered removing stickers or other identifiers from their vehicles after his letter appeared. Some actually did. We felt branded, and for me, there was an additional unsettled feeling in having something I loved used against me.

I can’t get a new license plate. I won’t get a new license plate. It has been my plate for 17 years, and it makes me happy. You just can’t let people take away your happy.

The truck with the TURTLVR license plate is mine. I have been a lifelong Bannock County resident and lived in Pocatello for the last 37 years. My turtle has been here for almost as long. We both love Pocatello. We are not outside influence, and we have learned a lot about sticking your neck out in the quest for progress. It’s worth it.

The Power of Pioneers

Published in the Idaho State Journal in July 2013.

July 24 is a big day in southeast Idaho. It’s Lynda Carter’s birthday! That’s right. The actress who played Wonder Woman in the 1970’s TV show will turn 62 this year.  Yes, yes, it’s Pioneer Day, too.  For years while many of my friends in town were feverishly working on floats and a fairgrounds celebration, I scoured my house and spiffed up the yard for the annual Lynda Carter’s Birthday Party.

We are inspired by so many individual and collective pioneers: Nikola Tesla, Amelia Earhart, Brigham Young, Jackie Robinson, the Stonewall Rioters, and, for me, Lynda Carter. My personal pioneer(s) and how I celebrate Pioneer Day do not diminish what anyone else has going on. It only adds to the collective festive energy happening this week.  

Pioneers are a powerful reminder of what our history is and what we want our future to be.

I first learned of the Mormon Pioneers when my college roommate decorated her side of the dorm with watercolor depictions of the Pioneer’s journey.  As an ISU volleyball team member with early pre-season play, I was able to check into my dorm room two weeks ahead of everyone else. My roommate arrived while I was away at a tournament and she was greeted by my Guns N Roses, Wonder Woman and Ninja Turtles posters.  As shocked as I was at her décor upon my return, I had a heads up in knowing she was a Ricks College transfer. Nothing on the form prepared her for glam metal and super heroes.

I listened with interest as she told me of the Pioneers’ escape from religious persecution and how church members today will embark upon reenactments involving hand-sewn dresses and bonnets, hand carts and other nuances of the original Pioneers.

Immersing oneself in the role of their favorite pioneers must be common because when I was younger, I’d wear Wonder Woman Underroos, red knee highs and tin foil bracelets. I was constantly yelled at for jumping off the furniture and trying to rope the cat with my kite-string lasso of truth. 

Terryl Givens, a professor of literature and religion at the University of Richmond, explained in a July 1 Boston Globe article, that today’s Pioneer treks “are more a ritual of remembrance than a historical reenactment.” We endeavor to be like our pioneers because we love what they taught us.

Being a pioneer entails confronting, disputing or fleeing what the masses don’t understand.  It encompasses tackling something difficult and blazing trails whether literally or figuratively. Many pioneers embrace sacrifice and embody courage.

Lynda Carter tackled a role like no actress before.  Her Wonder Woman was the first female superhero and role model for young girls. I learned from Lynda’s wonder woman that beneath many a secret identity is someone fabulous. I learned to be honest and true to myself and always stand up for right. She was steadfast in defending the underdog. She was a feminist who didn’t hate men, but surely challenged the bad guys, and she illustrated a poise and confidence that could accomplish anything. 

People often name their kids and pets after influential pioneers. I’ve met a number of Brighams who go by Brig.  I have met dogs named Darwin and Einstein.  A friend of mine who flies small planes and designs aviation parts named his daughter Amelia, and throughout the 90’s lesbians all over the country named their cats and dogs Amy and Emily after the pioneering folk duo the Indigo Girls.

A decade ago, I wanted to name my golden retriever Lynda Carter. My partner at the time knew she had to gingerly navigate this discussion.

“You have to imagine yourself reaching for the paper in the morning and having Lynda Carter bolt out the front door. Are you prepared to stand in your front yard in your pajamas with your bed-head hair all askew shouting, ‘Lynda Carter! Come here, Girl! Lynda Carter?’” Nope. I was not prepared to do that.  Maybe my next turtle will be so lucky.

I am, however, prepared to give a shout out for a Happy Pioneer Day and Happy Birthday, Lynda Carter!

 

My Next Best Day

Published in the Idaho State Journal in July 2013.

It’s summer road trip season! After so many alphabet games and rounds of slug bug, I imagine that my car starts in on a game of questions. What’s your biggest regret? What’s your favorite characteristic about yourself? What was the best day of your life?

I like to ponder that one. Do you have so many best days it would be hard to pick one? Did your mind immediately turn to your worst day? Are you an optimist who hopes the best day is yet to come?

Part of me is that optimist, but so far the best day of my life was Oct. 27, 1990. This could be a high school championship story spun like an Idaho fish tale spanning several pages, but I’m optimistic I can be brief.

We lost our first volleyball game of the state tournament, so we had to play all the way through the loser’s bracket. I was the only player not to sub out. During our sixth match of the day, a beautiful set was delivered by the lone sophomore on our team, and I nailed it. The kill ricocheted off of an opponent’s head and the final whistle sounded just before 11 p.m.

I hugged the setter like she just threw a world series 7th game no-hitter, and the team swarmed our embrace. Very few athletes get to end their high school careers like I did.

From waking up in the hotel before 7 a.m. with a blend of goofy high school antics and serious mental game prep all the way up until they handed me the trophy near midnight, that day was grand. All of our parents had driven to the tournament, and they were just as exhausted.

They huddled to take pictures with their smiles mirroring ours except for my mom. She was standing off to the side quietly whimpering with tears. I was embarrassed and almost sprained an eye while rolling them. None of the other parents were crying. Sheesh, Mom!

I gave her the obligatory two-second hug and told her I’d see her later. We all rode the bus home rather than ride with our folks, and I slept on the floor cuddling the Idaho-shaped trophy like a teddy bear.

The next day when I got the chance to scold Mom for crying in front of everyone, she started bawling all over again. Good grief. She noted the girl who set the ball to me. Watching our teamwork and celebration was something she wasn’t sure she would see in her lifetime. She was proud of my team’s performance, but she was more proud of our camaraderie. Seeing that I was confused and growing further disgusted, she explicitly pointed out that my setter was black. So?

Mom was in high school when Rosa Parks led the Montgomery bus boycott and in college when Martin Luther King Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech. Hugs and celebrations like that were scant when my mom was my age. The August anniversary of that speech undoubtedly marks a best day for many. When my mom was discussing this with me, I could barely see past my own perspective and experience and didn’t understand why she was making a big deal out of something that wasn’t. I get it now.

As we celebrated America’s 237th birthday, we are still surrounded by all sorts of social change and development. Some swift; some slow and steady. I see progress, and I see relapses. Lingering divides point toward every generation needing reminders of our history and humanity.

I understand Mom’s tears now, too, because “Grey’s Anatomy”, flyers for lost pets, old people holding hands, or witnessing a missionary’s return all have me inventing and lamenting “allergies.” You don’t have to be LDS to feel a snippet of that joyful anticipation and sacrifice when you see a mother’s eyes scanning the terminal; you just have to be human. I bet many of those returns are best days for those missionaries and their families.

A lot of best days are possible when we can simply live, work, laugh and play together. Pitch, set, pass, kick or hit the darn ball and forget all the rest. I still play volleyball now and then, but I’ve replaced my kneepads with tissues. It seems all of the eyeball rolling at my mom has made them prone to leaks. I never know when they will spring one, and I never know when my next best day will come.

Radical Reptiles and Religion

Published in the ISJ in June 2013

Recent non-discrimination ordinance efforts have spurred conversations with people about my political affiliations, my sexual orientation and my religious faith. Could you come with three things more personal and private? I’d much rather discuss turtles.

My box turtle Myrtle turns 30 at the end of July. Myrtle accompanied me on vacations to Yellowstone, Jackson Hole, and the Oregon coast, and when the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures were born, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello and Raphael joined us on our adventures. Myrtle spawned a vast collection and love of everything turtle.

The ninja turtles have undergone a number of redesigns since their inception. Religion has, too. The turtles as well as the faith I grew up with were inviting, benevolent and fun. Today, they both appear mean, scary, and harsh. You can still find the laid back vintage ninja turtle t-shirts and churches scattered about, but they both take some searching.
City councils and other lawmakers can’t do anything about the radical heroes in a half shell. They can’t nor should they do anything about my objections with specific religions, but they can and should prevent religious condemnation from spilling out of churches and into the civic lives of GLBT citizens.

In the ordinance debate of late, every hurtful word or use of scripture to justify anything other than equality and protection exposed the atmosphere necessitating such legislation. Our words are protected. Our faiths are protected. Our expressions of political affiliation are even protected, but the most recent ordinance language highlighting Idaho’s Religious Freedom’s Act along with the actions behind the verbiage are a flashing beacon of how unprotected GLBT people are in our region.

I feel stuck in a modern day Babel when people quote the Bible to leverage a war on homosexuality and when the language of love, acceptance, and humility are lost amidst the contradiction and judgment. I appreciate and respect the religious freedoms, however, that allow our differing interpretations. We are fortunate to have both a freedom of religion and a freedom from it in this country. That can be a tricky balance to maintain.

As a child I learned of “In the beginning”, Joseph, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Job, Jonah, and Malachi. I discovered the risqué text of Song of Songs, which was the only time I skipped football at recess to read the scriptures. I learned about the virgin, the manger, baptism, the bread and the fish, and the humility of cleansing feet with tears. I learned of the last supper and the kiss of betrayal and the crucifixion. “Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.” I learned of the resurrection and hope; forgiveness and peace; and the comfort of enveloping, unconditional love of a Father.

I mention my background in religious teachings for two reasons.

First is to convey that I understand how early the seeds of faith are planted for many and how they come to grow so deep. I grasp the precedents for allowing arguably discriminatory practices within a church, but not outside of it. Examples might include prohibiting women in leadership roles, membership restrictions, and excommunications. Incidentally, there wasn't a female ninja turtle in the original release, and I thought the introduction of one in the late 90’s was a clumsy and misguided attempt at gender inclusion.

While I disagree with churches that don't offer equal opportunities for men and women or those who persecute people based on their sexual orientation or gender identity, I support their right to define their own theology and the speech that accompanies it. It is that speech of late that that leads to the second reason for approaching the intersection of faith and sexuality in such a public forum.

I can speak to how damaging the disparaging words in the name of God are to members of the GLBT community who grow up in a church. Many leave their churches fueled by a primal sense of self preservation and a need to escape. The extraneous text highlighting the “Idaho Free Exercise of Religion Act” in Pocatello’s non-discrimination ordinance indicates no escape. With the Act already on the books, that text doesn’t need to be in there. It’s a punch to the gut and encourages religious condemnation to spill into the civic arena: If one can assert “religious freedom” when it comes to denying a home or job, will medical treatment be next?

That’s plain mean, scary and harsh, or as Michelangelo of old would say, “a bodacious bummer, Dude.”  

TMNT video game in the Boise Mall in 1990ish.

It's A Beautiful Day!

Every time local radio personality Paul Anderson says “I’m the luckiest man alive,” I think, “he’s lucky he is a man or I might challenge him for the title.” Every January, I think “I’m the luckiest woman alive!”

I detest January. It’s cold, often gray, and I feel fat and grumpy. Winter’s holiday treats and lack of physical activity are enemies to my usual good nature.  No. I don’t ski. I’ve lived in southeast Idaho all of my life and the sport still escapes me. I’m athletic and coordinated, but I’m like a moose on ice when I have skis on my feet. A fat, grumpy moose.

If I continue to write, you can count on continuing reflections of my mother, her life, and her death, especially in January. You can count on threads of Mom woven through my writing because the woman was wonderful and wise. She was my real Wonder Woman.

She provided years of great material to write about, learn from and emulate. No one else is going to write about her, and some of her life’s pieces should be shared, darn it. With no kids of my own, luckily you are the audience who gets the stories of the life and death of Mary V. Johnson.

Her father died of leukemia when she was 11 years old. They lived in a small town in northern Wisconsin and the whole community knew that my grandfather was sick except for my mom. One day he just died.  The lack of surprise from others compounded her grief. She felt duped and lied to and wasn’t going to do that with her kid.

She adopted a philosophy of transparency with me regarding some of the tough topics that parents tackle. Before I was in high school, I had more dialogue about death, religion, politics, sex, drugs, birth control, racism, and child abuse than many people have in a lifetime. I was lucky.

The day she died plays in my head like a Hallmark movie. I’d had my tonsils out mid-January. After about ten years of having strep throat during college finals, Christmas or New Years, I’d had enough. The surgery knocked me out and I hadn’t seen Mom in a few days. She was housebound battling emphysema and heart disease.

I visited on a Saturday morning, the day of George Bush’s first inauguration. She hadn’t slept right in weeks because she was anxiously watching news coverage of the Florida ballot recounts. I told her that her eyes glued to the screen weren’t going to help America and the best thing for everyone would be for her to rest her body.

She gave me her weekly shopping list. I remember popcorn salt, trash bags, and prunes among the items. I was still under the weather after the tonsillectomy, but luckily the sun was shining. It snowed that week and it stayed cold, so Pocatello was bright and white rather than dark and gray for my trek to the grocery store. Fred Meyer had recently opened and the wide aisles and pristine floors were delightful.

When I returned to Mom’s I asked if she had any chores for me. She had a few things but could tell I wasn’t feeling well so they could wait. As I unpacked her groceries, she became irritated with me because I got scented trash bags. As she opened them to see if she could handle the smell, the chemicals sent her into a wheezing frenzy.

She ramped up her oxygen, took a nebulizer breathing treatment and was back to breathing normally—her normally—in minutes. While she recovered, I wearily put the trash bags on the porch and the rest of her groceries away. The whole time I was thinking about how to approach the topic of assisted living. I needed to summon my own transparency in tackling a tough subject.

As I was leaving mid-day and told her I’d see her the next, she said, “Oh Honey, feel better. It’s a beautiful day. I hope you get out and enjoy it.”

Those were the last words she said to me. She died in front of her TV a few hours later.

How many people are this lucky? I experienced a touching, poignant parting with a simple instruction to carry forward.

When I got into my yellow Xterra, U2’s song “It’s a Beautiful Day” was playing. I’ve wondered, had something else had been on the radio at that moment, would her words have floated away? I’m lucky the song was playing, lucky I truly heard her words, and so lucky to have had a mom with that eternal outlook.

Even during my grayest, grumpiest moments of winter I remind myself: it’s a beautiful day! Get out and enjoy it!