Welcome home, Lynda Carter

Back in January, I wrote a column called “The ImportantThings.” I ended by saying, “We’ve got clean underwear and a bit o’ quiet, and that is important and enough for now while I wonder what will bubble to the forefront of 2015’s other important things."

When I wrote that, I was excited about the new year and what it might hold. I didn’t realize how important a youthful dog in the house was for me until my three year old labradoodle died weeks later.  A number of Idaho State Journal readers have approached me with condolences since I talked of Bob’s passing, so I feel compared to share. We got a puppy!

On the first of February, instead of settling into the Super Bowl and 10,000 calories of pizza, Doritos, and a courtesy carrot stick, my girlfriend and I grabbed some apples and Cliff bars and drove to Boise. We found a breeder online who had one female puppy left from a Christmas litter. We wanted a male, so we didn’t jump right away, but I just kept thinking that with all of her litter mates having gone home weeks before, she must have been waiting for us.  And she was.

I wore my favorite ninja turtle hoodie and we arrived at the breeder’s home after they got out of church. Right as we met the puppy, a pre-teen girl walked into the living room and shouted, “I love your sweatshirt!” The whole family is fans of the ninja turtles and the mom told us her nickname while growing up was “Turtle.” Needless to say, we are now Facebook friends and enjoy sharing our love of turtles and pups across the state.

As the Patriots squeaked by with the Super Bowl win over Seattle, we brought that 10-week old goldendoodle puppy home. Her name is Lynda Carter.  I’ve always wanted to name a pet after the actress who played Wonder Woman—2015 was the year!

A goldendoodle is a crossbreed of a poodle and a golden retriever.  Lynda Carter’s dad is a standard poodle and her mom is a first generation golden doodle, meaning her grandmother on her maternal side was a golden retriever and her grandfather was a poodle. Are you following her family tree here? In other words, Lynda Carter is 25 percent golden retriever and 75 percent standard poodle.  She’s on her way to being 60 pounds of mischief and delight.

Since Lynda Carter is a puppy and in trouble most of the time, I use her full name most of the time. It’s a bit of a mouthful, and sometimes I feel silly walking her around Holt Arena with firm and curt shouts of “Lynda Carter, heel!” I imagine that’s how parents of Alexander’s and Elizabeth’s feel.

It brings me joy when the secretary at the vet’s office says, “Hi. We are calling to confirm Lynda Carter’s appointment.” They use her full name, too. It’s so sweet how they cater to the crazy animal lover in me.  They were the ones who watched me sob when Bob died, so I imagine my rekindled smile brings them a little joy, too.

Lynda Carter has required a lot of work. Training her and molding her into a solid companion and good canine citizen is important to me. It’s probably as important as clean underwear, and it’s proving to be more important than establishing the stillness and quiet I need to write.

Businesses and executives often use the phrase “shifting focus” when they assume new strategies or undertake new jobs, and my own focus has shifted greatly with Lynda Carter’s arrival.  I continually think in prose and I have hundreds of columns unwritten in my head that I hope to share one day, but the wonder pup is stealing every second of spare time right along with my shoes, socks and underwear. She chews and poos with no attention to my plans, and when I don’t meet her demands, she targets her puppy power toward the poor cat Phil. 

 

I’m sad to say that I’ll be writing a lot less in the near term, but so thrilled to say welcome home, Lynda Carter.  

Lynda Carter posing while out on a walk.

Building Can Start Now

One of the first items on my bucket list is to build a real bucket list. I know I will die before doing all I want, so I let bucket list items float in my head rather than write them down. Besides, most of my jumbled inventory is built as I experience something spectacular and think, “That should have been on my bucket list. Check.” 

This may not be how bucket lists work—by adding items after the fact—but since it’s my list, I get to build it however I want.

Last week, I simultaneously checked off and added being the keynote speaker at Idaho State’s 15^th annual “Women in Work” conference.  Each spring, ISU’s Center for New Directions hosts over 225 girls in grades 9 through 12 from regional high schools, ISU students, and community members to learn about occupations in Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math (STEM). Degrees and certifications in STEM can provide a livable income, employment benefits, and professional opportunities extending beyond a minimum wage job and into a successful career.

This was an exclusive opportunity and an honor. I’d been nervous since I was asked last September. They wanted a head shot for their program and website, and although they said my “newspaper one” would work, I hesitated. I am wearing a ninja turtle t-shirt in this picture and it was taken at the Dallas World Aquarium on a summer vacation. Comic book t-shirts may be standard attire for an engineer, but I wanted my keynote persona, both in promotional materials and on the day of the event, to be polished and professional.

I've wanted to share this full pic since it's been used as my head shot.
She's been right there next to me since I started writing.   

 A friend of mine took a distinguished headshot featuring makeup and plucked eyebrows, but I struggled on the morning of the conference. I had one last dollop of hair gel that I burned calories to squeeze out of the tube. Then on autopilot, I rubbed it right on my cheeks like face lotion. I was hours away from the stage to portray a brilliant and inspirational engineer hoping to inspire young women, and now I was out of hair gel. At least I had “Hot ‘n’ Sexy” cheeks. It was a miracle that the mascara and deodorant ended up where they were supposed to.

See? Distinguished. 

This conference showcases women in various STEM careers so attendees can learn about opportunities they might not know exist and envision themselves in a STEM career down the road. My hair gel fiasco provided a comedic opening for my talk and allowed an authentic opportunity to connect with universal feelings of nervousness and inadequacy. What female teen (or male adult) doesn’t face these feelings?

I showed pictures of me in a pink tutu at age three, in my Girl Scout uniform at age seven, and with my trombone in high school. I showed myself in a bike helmet and an ISU t-shirt during my college volleyball years. I hoped the ballerinas, Girl Scouts, band members and athletes might see bits of themselves in any of the pictures and were able to further visualize attending college or embarking upon a STEM career.

My talk was rich in the “Engineer” part of STEM because I’m an “E.” I talked about a fragment of what engineers build: bridges, roller coasters, electronics, methodologies, semiconductors, process flows, prosthetics, networks… The list is infinite. (And yes, for the “Math” folks in STEM, “infinite” is debatable, but let’s do that another day.)

I was clear. I wanted the girls to open their eyes to the possibilities and promise of STEM. I conceded, however, that despite the presentations, hands-on activities, the amazing women they’d meet, and the encouragement they’d receive, they may choose a different path entirely. I begrudgingly let them know that’s okay, but I still hope they become women who build.  

Women can build families. We can build medical practices. We can build generations of students in becoming teachers. Women can have a hand in building darn near anything.

Like we need our foundations, bridges and educations to be strong, our society needs strong women, too. We are half of the population—think of all that is built upon or from us. If we as women are going to build anything, we need to be willing and able to stand strong, to be firm, and to help build each other.

Tearing down happens all around us, but we don’t have to be a part of it. We can build. I encouraged every single girl in the audience, whether they consider a career in STEM or not, to become a woman who builds. It’s not always easy, but the beauty in building is that it can start any time. Whether it’s a bucket list, the next generation of STEM professionals, yourself or others, building can start now.

What letter would you wear?

I’m in a Friday funk. Who says that? These days, I do. My dog Bob died a few Fridays ago, and last Friday, the woman who’s been like my second mom suffered a stroke. Her daughter was out of town, so I flew with her on a Life Flight plane to the University of Utah Medical Center. In the midst of that Friday frenzy, we had just enough time for my girlfriend to stop by my house and grab my fat jeans and a phone charger. I had a Visa, my ID and an inhaler, so I was as prepared as I could be for the rest of that Friday to unfold. I like to be prepared.

The latest contributor to my Friday funk was kicking off Friday the 13th with Representative Ken Andrus’s editorial “LGBT and Add the Words”.  While I disagree with some of what he says, I am grateful for the compassion and empathy that was laced throughout. We’ve been without both on both sides of this topic. His words, however, still sting. I’m by no means the voice for the LGBT community, but I am one voice who feels compelled to respond.

For argument’s sake, let’s say I’m a sinner. In my 42 years of earthly existence, some of my sins are easier to admit than others. Some of my sins I’ll shamelessly joke about like eating donuts or swearing at the new puppy. Some of my sins fill me with so much shame, I continue to sin in not forgiving myself. 

There's a house currently for sale two blocks from mine. I covet it completely. Perhaps I should start wearing a scarlet "C" so that every Christian knows I openly covet. Perhaps some Christians are okay serving me in spite of my sexual orientation, but would rather not engage in business with me because I covet. For those that view elements of being LGBT to be sinful, I suppose I should wear an “L” because I’m a lesbian, but I’ve always disliked the word. Could I please have a “G”?

I personally don’t give a rat’s rear end about wedding cakes and photographers. Regarding the themes expressed in Representative Andrus’ editorial, it’s the services I needed throughout my recent Friday experiences that concern me.

When I first meet people, let’s face it. I look gay. I don’t really need a letter. The veterinarian who would pronounce my dog dead was new in town. Would she be a “Christian”? Would the business slated to cremate Bob assert their religious freedoms and ask me to take him somewhere else? While standing amidst a dozen buzzing doctors and nurses trying to save the 85 year old woman I adore, would the attendant decline to bring me a desperately needed tampon because he couldn’t serve someone who engages in their definition of “immoral behavior” ?  When the doctors had her stabilized and I felt I could step away to the 24-hour Starbucks, would the barista decline my latte request because of my short hair and masculine gait? This runs through my mind constantly. Constantly.

It's these circumstances when I need people that I most fear the far reaches of a nebulous “religious freedom”.  It’s these moments when I experience the worst part of being LGBT. There’s the fear of being judged, but worse for me, it’s when I feel myself judging others. I don’t judge (I hope) in way that will lead me to treat people differently, but rather I judge out of that fear and an instinctive need for emotional and perhaps physical protection.  I judge to brace myself. I judge to be prepared.

The LDS church’s public statement supporting LGBT protections for housing and employment while ensuring their religious freedoms remain intact will continue to have me reflexively look for CTR rings on female nurses or search for a mid-thigh garment line of male doctors. My eyes are open for cross pendants and bumper stickers. I sigh in relief when a male nurse shows up with a pony tail or facial hair or when I see tattoos or smell smoke on the physical therapist because chances are higher that I can withhold my full suit of emotional armor.

While adjusting my armor through judgments and assumptions, I become exactly what I don’t want and exactly what hurts people in the first place. One who judges. Can I get a “J”?

Perhaps labels for sinners isn’t all that’s needed. Maybe those of the LDS or Lutheran faith who wish not to serve LGBT people could identify themselves with an “L” so we could just avoid each other altogether. But then how would we tell the “L”s for LDS, Lutheran and lesbian apart? If we followed a sinner/Christian labeling, we’d start looking the same. Perhaps we are the same. 

Still my favorite letter!

Love and Light in January

Love and Light in January

 “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”  Martin Luther King Jr.

Within a day of writing my last column, my dog Bob died in a horrific accident. I had just lamented January’s dark days and the anniversary of my mom’s death. Really, January? Way to step up your dreary game of darkness.

Bob was a three-year-old, 75-pound bundle of love and light. He had a play date with a black lab pal named Alli, and when I let them out of the kennel at noon to potty and play, they played with all their might. While fixing lunch, I heard Bob’s something-is-wrong cry. The dogs collided and Bob’s neck was broken. He was paralyzed instantly and died on the way to the vet.

Bob would get into the trash, usually after four days of coffee grounds could coat my kitchen floor. He’d take breakfast waffles out of little boys’ hands, and he’d snatch entire loaves of bread off the counter.  He was naughty and full of mischief, but his soulful gaze, goofy gate and steadfast friendship lit up my days. 

Two days after Bob died, I received the City of Pocatello’s Human and Civil Rights award. The chair of Pocatello’s Human Relations Advisory Committee (HRAC) asked me via email if I wanted to say a few words during the Portneuf Valley Interfaith Alliance’s MLK service. I bawled over my email.

I would love to say a few words. I would love to thank the HRAC for sponsoring the award and the man who nominated me.  I am humbled and grateful, but I couldn’t imagine talking to a crowd. A few words would turn into tears or a clumsy silence and apologies, so I asked a friend to read remarks and explain why I was uncharacteristically quiet.

I almost missed moments of light that night because I was in such a state of darkness over losing Bob. The Methodist church was full of people of different faiths. They stood and clapped as I received the award. I recognized Mormons and Jews and Episcopalians. Some of my coworkers as well as some of my mom’s former coworkers were there with hugs and handshakes. My old rugby coach who is now the Coordinator of Diversity Resource Center Programs at ISU was there. The church pews held straights and gays and any other number of labels we give ourselves.

During the fellowship reception, an LDS man shook my hand and offered condolences on Bob’s passing. He kindly talked of him and his wife losing their golden retriever. He was lucky there was a table between us because I wanted to hurl myself at him for a hug in hopes one of us would feel comfort. Grief breeds awkward, but add grief to an engineer who runs around in a cow suit and the conditions for awkward are at maximum capacity. His kindness brought light.

After that, another gentleman shook my hand to congratulate me and tell me he enjoys my columns. He added, “You’re much taller than I imagined.”  I almost hugged him, too!  I get that often, but the last time someone said my size surprised them, it came out, “Wow. You’re bigger than I thought you’d be.”  I can’t speak for all women, but since I quit playing rugby “big” isn’t my favorite adjective to describe myself. His complement and choice of “taller” brought light.

Since that evening, more light shined in my January. I got to recognize Pocatello High School senior Robert Perkel with School District 25’s character, attitude, kindness and encouragement (CAKE) award.  District officials knew about Bob, so they offered to make the presentation for me. No way. I have been surrounded by the light of kindness and was starting to feel the darkness lift. I wanted that to sustain. Besides, his name is Robert. That’s what I called Bob when he was regal and handsome after a haircut and bath. 

I’d met Robert years ago through MATHCOUNTS. He was smiley, kind and excitable then, and he’s all of those now. When I asked if he’d consider wearing my bull hat and making this month’s picture more silly, he didn’t hesitate. He knew it’d bring smiles and with that Robert brought light.

The joy that left my life when Bob died was replaced by a cutting and empty darkness. Over 300 people sent me notes on Facebook, texted or called with messages of support, and I have been surrounded by more love and light than I ever thought could be in January. I am sad and will be for a while, but I know MLK was on to something. Love and light.

Why, hello February. Welcome. Maybe you can lighten up a touch.

Bob's Bookends

In October of 2012, Bob the labradoodle came to live with me.  At that time, I was deciding whether to add him to my brood or help find him another home. Within minutes, there was no question. Bob was mine and he wiggled into my heart forever. His presence brought me a kind of joy I didn't know was even missing from my life.

His first family was going through an amicable separation and divorce. Alan was a working dad and Jena was a stay-at-home mom, and new challenges transpired with her returning to school and him assuming more parenting duties on his weeks with the kids.  At a year and a half old, Bob would add to their challenges exponentially, and no one was sure who should take him. Their black lab Alli was mature enough to go with the flow and either accompany the kids with each weekly transition or stay with Jena. My offer to try on Bob was accepted because they knew I loved dogs and as a friend of the family, he could still be in their kids’ lives.

When Bob died on Friday, the frantic search for old pictures and records began. Jena went through her old Facebook posts and couldn’t find record of it. She admitted that she probably didn’t say anything to many because she didn’t want people giving her a hard time about adding something else—an unruly puppy—to her already chaotic life.  Although she and Alan decided together to add him to their family, Bob was her idea. She was always searching for a something to fill voids she couldn’t quite explain.

In mid August of 2011, Jena loaded a puppy crate into her kid-van in Pocatello and headed to Jerome by herself to get Bob. The three kids were 3, 6, and 11 at the time and Alli the black dog was 6. (They’d gotten Alli within two weeks of having their second child.)   Her drive presented precious alone time that was scarce in her life. She talks of how Bob picked her out. All the other puppies galloped and played and paid her no attention, but Bob came to her. He approached her.

She sang to him on the way home because he whined for his litter mates. He threw up in his crate, so she pulled over to clean it up. She used her Eddie Bauer pocket knife out of the glove box to cut an old quilt kept in the back of the van for picnics. She cleaned up his mess with half of the quilt and put the other half in the crate with him for comfort.

Alan and Jena named all of their animals after musicians. Alli was named after Alison Kraus and Bob was named after Robert Smith of The Cure.

Bob spent a lot of his puppyhood in a crate. The family would let him out to be among them and he was terrible. Stay-at-home moms with more than one kid can easily imagine the chaotic after-dinner scene with kids sparring and no one helping clean up and there’s whining about baths and bickering over toys and Dad has to go downstairs to finish up some work and the black lab is getting into the trash and the other dog, BOB, is on the counter—ON THE COUNTER eating the entire loaf of bread set for the kids’ lunches the next day. Things like that happened often, so Bob was relegated to the crate.

One time he ate the oldest’s beta fish and then peed on her bed—likely right before bedtime when there wasn’t time to wash sheets. He chewed cables in the back yard and ate kids’ sack lunches. He’d steal underwear and eat them and then puke them up on the carpet within inches from the easy-to-clean tile. They loved him, but he was A LOT. He needed time and attention and exercise, but so did everyone else in the family. They weren’t equipped to handle him while they were together, and it was going to be more difficult with them apart.

When he came to live with me, I had to introduce him to my 11 year old golden very carefully. She and her sister who’s 12 stay with me half the time and with my ex the other half, and they are so sweet to people, but terribly aggressive. During their first meeting, my golden lunged at Bob, and I stuck my leg in between them. I suffered a terrible dog bite square in my thigh. All of Quincy’s teeth punctured my skin and I couldn’t run or ride my bike for a week.

The dogs worked it out and Stacy and Quincy let Bob into their pack.

Bob would spend time playing with the goldens and playing with Alli, but the goldens and Alli never play together.  He was the diplomat.

He loved to hike and bike and be moving. It helped him to behave. Barely. He’d run the trails and City Creek with so much zeal that he’d knock down the kids if he didn’t see them around the corner. When he’d visit Jena’s house, he’d resort to his worst behaviors with the trash and food thievery. Kids and adults would scold and yell and lock angry stares with his guilty eyes while he’d slink away and scheme some more.

On the Friday he died, I had just let Bob and Alli out of the kennel for their lunchtime let-out. They were zooming around the yard—bounding and lurching and chasing like they always did. I went inside to make lunch when I heard Bob’s cry. I could see out the window that it was his neck. They probably collided in a perfect catastrophe. Bob’s neck was broken, and he was likely paralyzed instantly.

I called Jena. She was in class. I got Bob into the truck and picked Jena up on the way to the vet. She got in the passenger seat but after a block, she wanted to get in the back with him. He was fading. She tried breathing for him remembering mouth-to-snout tips she’d read, but it was useless. I could hear her crying in the back of the truck as I sped and when I stopped at the vet and opened the tail gate, she was sobbing over his lifeless body. Oh Bob. Oh Jena. He was with you when he came home and he was with you when he left.

The vet staff brought out a cart and got him in and they checked his vitals and he had indeed passed. The poor vet is new to their office. She was so kind and so tender and left us to be with Bob. We cried and pet him and took a few pictures. I texted Alan while standing over Bob. Alan is a no-nonsense, no-frills guy, so my text was succinct and to the point:

 

So Bob and Alli were wrestling in the yard. Bob broke his neck. He’s gone. Will you please let the kids know?

He responded with:

I’m so sorry. That is awful. You ok?

As condolences poured in via Facebook, I felt like I wanted to be around people. Alan called the brew pub to reserve space for a gathering that night because neither Jena nor I could imagine carrying on a conversation yet.  He said he’d come by and bring the kids. He also brought an iPad so we could run a mini slide show of Bob pictures.

While people were toasting Bob and buying me beers because they felt the joy and mischievousness of his spirit in my Facebook posts, Jena, Alan and the kids were there mourning, too. Bob’s death brought back memories of how he came to be Bob at a time when their lives and their family was very different than it is now. 

As over 200 comments of comfort and support for me came in after Bob died, Jena was experiencing more than I can imagine. She’s got her own loss in his departure, being with him at his beginning and his end. She’s got a guilt that she couldn’t be to him what I was; she wasn’t the one who told her boys he died; and that night at the brew pub, she watched the woman who Alan is now dating offer wonderful comfort and sweet solace to her sons. That is a lot of damn stuff to process in the passing of Bob.

Life is a constant series of taking hold and letting go. Deciding what we can handle and what we can’t. When to love and when to retreat. Making mistakes and making amends. Elements of Bob’s life had many people making these choices through pain and joy and hope and just doing the best they could.

As humans, I truly believe that we do the best with what we have. And what we don’t have. Right now I am sad—SO SAD! —that I no longer have Bob, but I’ll just keep doing the best I can. Bob became my dog and our bond was recognizable and indisputable, but his first family still loved and maintained their own bond. Bob was my souldog, but Jena was his bookends.

Jena and Bob "helping" me pack.

My favorite collage capturing his expressions.

Bob was their protector and their pal.

And even though he ate her fish, peed on her bed
and always went through her trash, the oldest
still loved him and took this picture on his last birthday.

Bob loved trips to patios. And me.

The pack of gold dogs at Bonneville park while the boys played.

Gee. Which one of the pack got into the kitty litter?

We all loved drinking fountain pictures.

Mountain biking break at Elk Meadows.

Bob was big, but he fit perfectly in my lap and in my heart.

Bob standing on a coffee table while they played.

What can I say? He stood on tables.

How napping with Bob in the house often went.

How waking up from a nap with Bob went.

Bob and his buddy Alli running at Alvin Ricken.

Bob and Alli at Bartz. They loved the space to be free.

This is how they played. And how Bob died. There was joy.

Resting together. 

City Creek hikes were EVERYONE's favorite. Bob was always a blur.

Always climbing and being together.

 

He loved cooling off in the creek by the bridges.

"I'm heading to the bridge. I'll see you later."

A Tub of Prunes

Yep. It’s January. Gray, grumpy and grumbling am I.  I’ve read up on seasonal affective disorder (SAD) and I am a prime candidate. My winter blues, however, could also be connected to my mom almost dying one January and then dying this month a year after that. I remember it all this time of year. While I may be remembered for my love of turtles, Wonder Woman or cow suits, my mom is remembered among a few for her prunes.

With debilitating heart and lung disease, my mother wasn’t able to return to the office during the last year of her life. Management let her work from home, and many accommodations were made. She called her lazy boy in the center of the house “mission control,” and with a card table on wheels in front of her and a plastic set of mini cabinets beside her, she had everything she needed within her reach.

She had work papers, pens, notebooks, files, white out and batteries. Her medications, the telephone, popcorn salt, the TV remote and medical tape for her oxygen tubes were right there. She also kept a supply of prunes in the bottom drawer of her cabinet because she ate a few when she took her medicine.

Her work arrangement only worked for a few months and she was told she’d either need to return to the office or retire. She wasn’t ready to go, and she cried, but it was time. She retired from Health and Welfare that late summer, but she kept her mission control set up and would write letters and watch CNN from the cockpit. Many of her colleagues continued to visit for weekly lunches.

She decided that the prunes in the cabinet were too far away, but she didn’t want the Sun Sweet tubs visible to guests. In a fit of crafty genius, she used left over wrapping paper from Christmas and my birthday to wrap her tubs of prunes so guests would think they were simply a decoration.

She had three friends who visited regularly and when they came for lunch the week before she died, she let them in on her prunes secret. The ladies laughed. After so many years working together they were at the point of discussing the importance of prunes and the measures taken to ensure their consumption.  

On a Saturday, Mom sent me to the store for groceries and the list included prunes.  She wanted to wrap them and give them to her pals as both a gag and a gift. I didn’t care for buying five canisters of prunes at a time, but it was better than when she sent me to the adult entertainment store to buy Chippendales birthday cards for her friends.  I’ll choose prunes over dudes in Speedos, thank you.

Mom died just hours after I unloaded those groceries. One of the hardest things I’ve done was go back to my childhood home the next day knowing she was gone from this world. I had to get a nightgown for the funeral home because Mom viewed death as an eternal nap, and she wanted to be buried in her best flannel gown. While wandering the house and looking at my pictures on the walls, mission control, and all of the signs of a former life, I saw the prunes on the counter.

On auto-pilot, I pulled up to the kitchen table to wrap them. This was the table where we played Trivial Pursuit for hours; where she wielded her red pen over my essays and scholarship applications and condemned “too much flowery language”; where we shared Thanksgiving dinners with wayward ISU volleyball players who couldn’t go home for the holidays. I’m suddenly panicking that I don’t remember what happened to that table.

I sniffled and cried in the otherwise silence while I made those canisters the most beautiful tubs of prunes ever to be. I placed a bow on them and when I got to the To/From tags, I lost it. The sniffles succumbed to sobs and I clutched all three canisters like they were all that I had left of my mother, and I was going to give them away. I wanted to keep them, but they were meant to be given.

That January was a ceremonious passing of the torch in a handoff of the prunes. When Mom was no longer there to wrap them, I had to. I have no idea how I managed, but I delivered those gift-wrapped prunes to her pals at her old office just days after she died. I imagine if Mom was here today and I brought up feeling grumpy and heavy, she’d smile, wink and say, “there, there, Honey. I’m sorry.” And then she’d hand me a tub of prunes.

Blue Lights Bleed

Last weekend, I could feel myself coming down with another mid-life crisis, so I headed to a car dealership.  While waiting as they searched their database, I had some time to browse Facebook on my phone. An alert zipped by. “Kerry Baxter is going to Blue Light Week.”  My pal Kerry also goes by Detective Sergeant Baxter. I clicked on “Blue Light Week” to see what it was.

“Replace your porch light with a blue light bulb for 1 week to honor all police officers that have fallen in the line of duty. These brave men and women have sacrificed everything for us so let's show our support. For all that are invited please feel free to invite anyone you wish. Let's spread the word!”

Simple enough.

The charming former jocks running the car dealership computers let me know that it’d take some time to see if what I was interested in was out there. They took my number and said they’d call me.

On my way home from the dealership, I needed to stop at the grocery store and I decided to go ahead and get a blue light bulb.  I don’t get to see my pal Kerry much, but last year when work had me in New England over a nine month stretch, I got to see her a lot. She was the first woman in New Hampshire to reach the rank of Sergeant, and is now a part of a detective unit investigating crimes against children and sexual assaults. She has been with the Mountain Bike Unit and Ceremonial Unit and received the Medal of Valor. And a little over a year ago, she begrudgingly paricipated in an unforgettable Cow Suit Saturday with yours truly. (I still can't believe I got her in a cow suit!)

We text a few times a week and talk a few times a month, but either of our schedules can alter that one way or another. She had been working homicides over the holidays, one involving a child. Uncannily she texted just as I was grabbing the blue light bulb.  She sent me a link to a New England news site: “Nashua mother faces murder charge in 3-year old’s death.”  They got their arrest.

Kerry can’t give me many details about her cases. After growing up with a mom who was a child protection worker, I know exactly the kind of depravity, senselessness and evil she sees in her job while I experience a little back pain and monotony with my cubicle privilege.  The control in her personal life makes up for her lack of control at work.

She irons all of her pants and dress shirts with razor sharp creases. She shovels perfect paths around her backyard for her dog to traverse after a snow storm, and her counters and medicine cabinets are pristine.  She doesn’t have ice cream and beer in the same day, and she works out at least two hours a day, not necessarily to stay fit for the job, but to channel everything into exhausting and mindless sets and repetitions. 

  

I intended to put my blue bulb in my front porch light, but I’d need a ladder and tools and I had ten minutes to get to the brew pub to meet a friend.  The sun was setting and I didn’t want to waste moonlight by waiting for the next day, so I put the blue light at my side entrance which opens to my kitchen and basement. After I got all gussied up to go out, I headed downstairs to empty the cat litter—because with three cats I do this 17 times a day now—and I halted at the sight of the cobalt glow.

It was so solid and steady. When I see blue lights, they are usually flashing on a police car or lining a runway. There’s usually something about to happen, but outside my window just past dusk, nothing was happening. At least not in my driveway. But somewhere in this country, at any hour of the day, something is happening involving police officers. 

I walked outside, took a blurry picture and sent it to my pal.

I’ve seen a few other blue lights at people’s houses this week, and while I can’t speak for the personal and specific reasons behind the others, I can tell you that my blue light bleeds into the black of night in honor of my buddy Detective Sergent Kerry Baxter and the many other solid and selfless, service men and women who do what they do.