Parrish Lane

Yesterday my flight was delayed out of Boston, and I missed my connection in Salt Lake. Like other tech-obsessed-but-not-sorry Americans, I quickly updated my Facebook status:

Missed my connection. When things like this happen, I open my eyes wider & look into more eyes & I wonder if my smile to them or theirs to me is what I'm supposed to get outta this disruption.

And so went the next few hours wondering what I would see.

From the plane, I was able to email a friend and she made me a reservation with a shuttle service so I could take a van home from the Salt Lake Airport. I’d been put on the next flight, but that would have had me in the airport for 5 hours and home at 6pm. This shuttle would have me home at 3pm. Like an infant needs swaddled, I needed home.

I boarded the van with a smattering of folks. There was a Polynesian BYU-Idaho student, a strawberry blond woman 4 months pregnant, a Mexican guy with a cowboy hat, an older couple named the Duffy’s with Australian accents, a guy whose family runs a farm in McCammon, and a kid heading to Jackson Hole for a ski competition. There were about 3 other passengers in the back of the van whose smiles I didn’t catch. The jolly old driver let us know we had to pick up another in Ogden with a broken leg.

As the van departed the airport, I promptly checked Facebook. I spend too much time there, but with my travel schedule of late, it keeps me connected to home. It’s been a lifeline at times. I’m reading two books presently, and considered visiting one of them during the drive. One is on improving your writing and one is about prayer. I wasn’t into self improvement at the moment and have already spent a lot of time “in prayer” this week so I stuck with my phone. 

At 22 minutes from our scheduled van departure, I happened  to glance up. There it was out the van window.  A larger-than-I-ever-recall freeway sign.

Parrish Ln 1/4  Mile

Breath audibly escaped me. My previously tense shoulders relaxed. My body went limp.

In our town this week Bill Parrish and his wife Ross and their sons Keegan and Liam died of carbon monoxide poisoning due to a faulty water heater. Their two other children, Jensen and Ian, were serving LDS missions at the time. I went to junior high and played volleyball with Bill’s sister Carri and I played volleyball in college with Bill’s other sister Kristi. Their mom Becky was smiling in the stands during many of my volleyball games growing up. It was her smile I saw in the van in that instant.

This mama who lost so much this week. This mama whose smile has been cruelly dislocated. I saw her. I felt her. And Carri. And Kristi. And all of many other Parrish family members while I sat in the van.

They’ve naturally been flitting through my mind since I heard of the tragedy, but for those moments during yesterday’s van ride, I gave them all my focus. As I’ve said before…I may not be much, but I am something.

The book on prayer that I’m reading is called “Help Thanks Wow” and it is by Anne Lamott. From the few pages I’ve read when I’m not dinking around on Facebook, the woman views prayer much like I do. And it’s a complicatedly simple view.

Our thoughts to God, a god, ourselves or the universe, whether formulated and thought out or visceral reactions…they are all a form of prayer. Anne Lamott classifies all of them as either pleas for help, expressions of thanks or simply a Wow—both good and bad "Wow's".

I’ve silently expressed all of these for the Parrish family and the hundreds of their friends who know them.  They have been a steadfast staple of Pocatello and Chubbuck for years. I’ve been in the bustling bagel shop of our hometown writing and I’ve seen dozens pass through in their Sunday best and wearing “Parrish 13” shirts. (For Keegan who played basketball at Highland.)

I haven’t been home for 24 hours and I’m going to a funeral. Then I’m going to go home and install a carbon monoxide detector.  And then I’m going to continue with whispers of Help, Thanks, and Wow for myself and the sweet Parrish Family.

 

Dear School District 25, I Love You

Dear School District 25,

I love you. You have had a terrible couple weeks, and I want you to know that I am here for you. It may sound futile, but what can I do? That’s not a throwing up of my arms with a rhetorical question. I am really asking: what can I do? You were there for me. I want to be there for you.

You’ve taught, consoled, mentored, and coached. You’ve fed, led, driven and listened. You’ve done so much of what you are supposed to and so much more when parents don’t. Or can’t. You did all that for me. Thank you.

I don’t have kids in your schools. I work full time in the private sector and have been out of town for weeks at a time, but there must be something I can do. There is always something I can do. I learned that from you, your teachers and my mom. You worked together. You leaned on each other to teach me that. Thank you.

When I hear news involving children and heartbreak, I wonder in an instant, “Do I know the family?”  As if my connection will lessen the tragedy. It might be a lesser tragedy for me, but it never is for you.  Because you, School District 25, know them. You and your teachers know almost all of the kids in our community and you are doing your darnedest to do right by them. Thank you.

People are angry at you for not doing enough in recent weeks. People are pointing fingers.  People are crying “bullying” so much that I fear bullying is becoming the wolf of this generation. People are looking for someone to blame to make sense of this senseless tragedy. I was looking too, and while I was searching for the genesis of blame in news articles and Facebook threads and the dialogue of rumor mills, I found one of the problems.

It was in a mirror.

I didn’t know her, but her pictures remind me of me. The stories I hear about her personality remind me of me. I wish I would have come out sooner. I wish I could show every GLBT kid in this town how wonderful life can be. It’s not going to be easy, but nothing is. I learned in your schools and on your athletic courts, that I can’t control other people. Not their minds or their actions. But, I can control how I react to them. We, individually and collectively, can control how we react. And we can influence. 

The depth of her struggle, though similar, was different than mine.Whether it was her unique accumulation of experiences or her lens,that darkness isn’t a kind I have ever seen. I can only imagine.  I have never been in your place either, so I can only imagine that, too. I imagine it’s tough. And these weeks have been some of your toughest.

You are an entity to many, but I know that you are people. Caring, kind, and hopeful people who are deflated, confused and angry right along with the rest of us. Even though you work with continuing budget cuts and increasing responsibilities, you work tirelessly and constantly to improve the lives of children right along with their test scores. Even when it feels like parents have stopped, you have never stopped working. Please don’t stop now. Please don’t give up.

None of us can give up. There is a pie chart of responsibility when someone so young commits suicide, and in a community our size, everyone gets a slice. While we are choking on our slices and our tears and our regrets, and looking in our mirrors, I want you to know that I love you. Please know that you are loved and appreciated, and if there is something I can do, tell me. I may not be much, but I am something. And I am something because of you, School District 25.

Marcey's Daycare

Have you found your gift yet? That unique trait or talent that’s a great conversation piece or party trick? Or something that simply makes people smile? We’ve all got something. Maybe you can do handstands, origami, jaw-dropping napkin-sketches, or quiet an infant with a soothing rendition of “Welcome to the Jungle.” My gift is birthdays. I remember birthdays.

It began in first grade when I sat by the cupcake bulletin board. My first grade teacher was an amazing artist, so all of her bulletin boards captivated my attention, but the cupcake calendar drew me in. Each month she redecorated the calendar to coincide with the season or a holiday and placed a paper cupcake with a student’s name on their birthday. I stared at them when I finished assignments early and let my imagination play with cupcake flavors and birthday daydreams.

Since then, when I learn of a person’s birthday, my mind identifies a first grade classmate and then branches out from there. Dates and people are filed in my mind with dizzying accuracy.  There are entries for celebrities, US Presidents, co-workers, former co-workers, kids I have coached, high school prom dates, their wives, and on and on.

I would be a better engineer if this information could escape and make room for technical substance, but it’s fun to surprise people by remembering them and their day. I’m pretty sure that none of my classmates have a birthday in February, but the lady who ran my daycare does. Marcey celebrates her birthday every February.

My mom left social work when she got married and helped my dad run their bar and restaurant in Lava Hot Springs. I had a bouncy swing in the bar, a walker in the kitchen, and I learned to play pool as soon as I could walk.  It was the 70’s and it was Lava. On the days that I wasn’t in the Lounge, it was easy for Mom to find childcare. She knew the whole town and was comfortable leaving me with a number of sitters young and old.

After my folks divorced, I got to go to daycare.  Mom and I moved to Pocatello and she researched all over town before finding one that met her standards and would pick up her little angel up from school. I started at Tammy’s Daycare in first grade. When I was in third grade, a lady named Marcey bought the facility. Mom was leery because she had done all this reconnaissance on Tammy, but didn’t know this new lady.  She and I soon learned that Marcey was a red-headed angel, just like me only taller.

Now that I am a middle-aged  woman (that hurts to see in print), I have many friends who are experiencing life changes necessitating daycare for their children. Some are transitioning from stay-at-home mom to the workforce. Some have gone through a separation and divorce. Some just need a darn break or want some socialization for their kids.  As they have mentioned their fears and misgivings to me, I had no idea of the guilt that moms face over daycare.

I somewhat cavalierly asked a slew of my mom friends to tell me about any “mother’s guilt” to see if daycare or having a career was a hot button for many. It was. As bullet points and confessions flooded in, I was stunned. I had a blast at Marcey’s Daycare, and even worked there during my teenage years. I am so glad that I got to go. Wait. I guess I should say “had to.” That’s just it. I had to. There was no other choice.

I have wondered if Mom felt this sweeping, unyielding guilt that many of my friends do. I doubt it. She did a great job raising me to feel guilty for all sorts of things, and she smugly admitted doing that on purpose, but I never got the sense that she carried guilt.  Why embrace guilt for something outside of your control? 

I still see Marcey all the time. We have lunch around our birthdays and when we met a couple weeks ago, there was hardly a lull in our conversation. Daycare may be daunting to many mothers, but for my mom and for me, it was a gift. And so was Marcey. 

Cupcakes, Cheers and Courage

Submitted to the Idaho State Journal on 2/4/2014.

I began this week basking in the afterglow of courage. On Monday morning, the weekend was a jubilant memory of personal triumph. The Friday before, it was a gauntlet. Courage is subjective, relative and abundant in our midst, and I’ve begun to see hints of its existence in nearly everyone.

An internal dialogue on courage began swirling in my head two weeks ago when I met local cake artist Paula Ames. She showed up at my office with a dozen of her coconut lime cupcakes just for me. She does this Tasty Tuesday promotion on her Facebook page where she asks fans for nominations of good in our community. Then she surprises people with some of the best darn cupcakes you can imagine and lets winners know that someone thinks they are wonderful.

Paula’s delivery and my friend’s nomination were sweet and I shared my thanks with both of them. I wanted to share my cupcakes with no one. 

Later that day, I texted Paula and asked if I could join her on a Tasty Tuesday delivery sometime in a cow suit. I asked if she would wear one with me. I assumed with our mutual acquaintance and the Tasty Tuesday nomination that Paula knew about my cow suit shenanigans. But she didn’t.  Our exchange was only briefly awkward.  Her skepticism transformed into courage as she shared her cow suit insecurities via text with this stranger who was by now devouring a third cupcake.

As our chat progressed, Paula surrendered to even more courage when she agreed to join me on a cow suit escapade, but with a caveat. Knowing that I would be in Boston, she agreed on a mutual adventure if I agreed to go to the Cheers bar, buy her a t-shirt and film myself singing the old TV show theme song, all in a cow suit. 

I do not sing in public. Ever. This is unprecedented. The element of being alone in one of America’s largest cities dressed as a cow was daunting, but really, it was the singing.

I worked off every one of those cupcakes as I pounded on the treadmill trying to convince myself I had the courage to do this. And by golly I did.

This Idaho cow girl left her hotel and boarded Boston’s subway desperate for some courage in a cow suit. I walked the Freedom Trail. People waved, mooed, and smiled at me and almost made me forget how scared I was. I stumbled upon and joined a march on the Capitol for climate change education. Marchers can be full of courage, and I was hoping I would catch some.

I continued on alone to Cheers through the Boston Commons Park. When I arrived I wasn’t alone for long. One of the hosts named Marcus donned my extra cow suit after I shared the story of my challenge. He was skeptical, but after he saw me simply sitting, smiling and sipping a cold one, he joined me.  There’s nothing to fear in being a steer. Well, actually, there might be.

When the manager cued the song, the whole bar sang with us. Two guys from Spain, a group from New Jersey, men, women and a couple of us in cow suits all had the same troubles carrying a tune and tracking lyrics. It was true about Cheers. I felt like I was in a time and place where everyone knows that people are all the same.  I wish Idaho would see that.

The present Idaho Human Rights Act prohibits discrimination in housing and employment based on age, disability, race, religion, and gender. For the last eight years supporters have asked the Idaho Legislature to hold a public hearing and ultimately add the words “sexual orientation and gender identity.”

Hours before courageous “Add the Words” protestors were getting arrested at the Boise Capitol, I was blogging about courage. I’m not sure I agree with the protestors’ actions prompting arrest, but I understand feeling like it’s the only move they’ve got. I applaud their peaceful courage and support their cause. Our cause.

If they have the courage to stand up and get arrested, I can at least continue to write in the first person. It’s getting easier, but it’s scary every single time.

I accepted a silly challenge that required a new kind of courage for me and I felt inexplicable pangs of guilt because many people need real courage for real things. Monday’s protests in Boise were about that reality.  Singing solo in a cow suit in a big city is one thing. Living and working is another. It shouldn’t take courage to live and work openly in this state, but it does. Add the Words, Idaho.