Hamburger Helper helping me Through

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on March 7, 2021.

I made Hamburger Helper for dinner last Tuesday. To make it “healthy”, I used lean ground turkey and mixed in a can of green beans. Our boys got a protein, carb, and vegetable, and I called it a midweek victory. Low-energy Hamburger Helper will be as much a staple in our boys’ youth as it was in mine.

At some point in my tween years, Mom sat me down to talk about “interdependence.” It was a conversation framed around her need for my help. She was a single parent and her job was changing significantly. She took on the role as the only child protection social worker in Idaho’s four southeastern counties. This would have her dropping me off at school well before 8 a.m. and driving to Caribou, Oneida, Bear Lake or Franklin county each day. She also had to cover southern Bannock County and the communities in the Marsh Valley school district including Lava Hot Springs, Downey and Arimo.

She asked me to help more with cooking, cleaning and generally taking care of my own needs with homework and getting home from school.  While this was a normal age for an increase in responsibilities and contributions to the household, the shift in our small family was abrupt and without wiggle room. Our years of interdependence were upon us.

A couple nights a week, dinner was my job, and Hamburger Helper was my go-to. I’d scurry home at dusk after practice and start browning the hamburger. The stewed casserole would be warming on the stove when Mom got home, and we’d eat together and talk about our days.

I can still remember names and cases and atrocities that children suffered that Mom helped with. Hamburger Helper commercials at the time said “help your hamburger, help her,” and I took it to heart. She had to help a lot of children and families, and in assuming more responsibilities at home, I was helping, too.

Mom wasn’t working alone in Idaho’s southeastern counties. She worked with teachers, school administrators, law enforcement and school boards. I can still hear her say things like, “I met a new friend today who is a principal in Soda Springs” or “the sheriff in Preston” or “the chair of the Marsh Valley School Board.” She worked with all of these people to conduct investigations, bring perpetrators to justice and educate communities about child abuse and neglect. As soon as she worked with a fellow civil servant, she spoke of them as her friends.

It was during my impressionable youth, I came to grasp that social workers, teachers, principals, law enforcement - any public servant really - sees things that the average person does not. My middle school friends were mad once when a classmate got an extension on an assignment; I noticed the cigarette burns on the back of his neck. Peers teased a classmate because she smelled bad; I saw her walk into the counselor’s office where one of Mom’s “friends” was waiting to talk with her. I knew there was even more going on around me beneath the surface that I didn’t know, and that truth remains today.

Our community is in the middle of a recall effort of three school board members. The central claim of recall proponents is that the school board hasn’t listened to the public – that they are not “serving the public.” As a member of the public, I’m here to say that I feel adequately served by this board.  I am not in agreement with every decision or even every decision-making process they’ve undertaken, but I know the public they serve is vast, and information comes at them from many perspectives. The school board is privy to personal stories of individual students, teachers, and subject matter experts that I am not, and there are state and federal laws they must adhere to that I’ve never even heard of. 

This recall effort isn’t helpful, and in fact it’s detracting people from their jobs at hand. A recall isn’t going reduce the COVID-19 numbers to ensure kids stay in school. The public must help with that. A recall isn’t going to get my kid to turn in his math assignment on time. I have to help with that. While still firmly in a pandemic, a recall isn’t going to ease our children’s mental health woes, but as parents, we must work together to do that.

I view my relationship with all public servants, including the school board, as one of interdependence. Before I consider how they should be helping me, I consider how I could be helping them, and right now I’m probably most helpful in encouraging empathy and understanding all around while taking care of myself and my family. And, good ole easy-peasy Hamburger Helper is helping with that.

Because of Mrs. Atkinson

Published in the Idaho State Journal on February 21, 2021.

A couple weeks ago, my friend Cori from junior high sent me the sweetest note on social media. Her mom, a former teacher of mine, had been saving my columns for Cori when she stops by.  It’s been 35 years, and Mrs. Atkinson is still keeping tabs on me. What a comfort and delight. All of my wonderful teachers are on my mind in the weeks before a school district levy vote, but ever since I heard from Cori, I’ve been thinking specifically about Mrs. Atkinson.

I went to a small religious elementary school, so when I got to Hawthorne Junior High in seventh grade, I only knew a handful of kids. The sheer number of students was a shock.  A kindhearted locker partner, and the promise of sports and band kept me from despair.

My first hour class was Mrs. Atkinson’s Lifetime Sports. Being a sporty kid, I was hopeful. When I learned she was the seventh grade volleyball and basketball coach, I was ecstatic. The class focused on sports we could play throughout our lifetime: tennis, golf, pickle ball, ping pong, and bowling.  I went on to join a youth bowling league, spent hours in college playing ping pong with my digital circuits study partner, and can still hold my own on a tennis court and golf course.

During the first week in class, I was trying to chat with a classmate when a group of girls from the reservation started to tease us. We ignored them at first, but the ring leader kept interrupting me. When I’d had enough, I looked her in the eyes and yelled, “Knock it off! You’re not being very Christian!” She smirked, handed her glasses to a friend and punched me. Hard. Right in the face. 

My eyes watered without my permission while she waited for me to fight back. I didn’t. It would not have been “Christian”, and the force in her punch told me I needed to sit this one out. Mrs. Atkinson had entered the gym just in time to see the exchange. She pulled us aside individually. I saw the pain in Mrs. Atkinson’s face when she told me if either of us was reported to the principal for fighting, we couldn’t play sports.  I was incensed that the other girl wasn’t going to get in trouble, but even in week one, I trusted Mrs. Atkinson and her judgement. The other girl went on to be a basketball star; I went on to play college volleyball; and as I got to know the other girl’s friends from the reservation, they became my friends, too.

I hesitated to make many friends my seventh grade year because my dad had moved back in while he recovered from having a lung removed. He spent my seventh grade year sleeping on our couch slowly dying of lung cancer, and I didn’t want anyone to see him in his sickly state.  Mrs. Atkinson often checked in with me asking how my dad was. She was a rock.

Two years later, Mrs. Atkinson coached our ninth grade volleyball team. I was so big that none of the uniform shorts fit me, so the whole team had to get new ones. There wasn’t funding or time to get a desirable replacement, so we ended up with cheap, white shorts. Not one ninth grade girl wanted white shorts, but Mrs. Atkinson squashed any rumbling and complaints before they could arise, and she didn’t let me spend one second feeling bad about my size or the money the school had to spend.

This past year, the pandemic has presented our school district with unforeseen challenges far greater than new ninth grade volleyball shorts. The teachers aren’t just supporting one or two kids going through a trauma like losing a parent, they’re supporting all kids going through the trauma of a pandemic while simultaneously experiencing it themselves. Through my thick gratitude for every teacher, I see their exhaustion.  And despite my own exhaustion and pandemic fatigue, you can bet I’ll be at the polls voting yes in the upcoming school levy in honor of my Mrs. Atkinson and every single teacher like her.

Mrs. Atkinson didn’t plant the seeds of math or science that spawned my career. She didn’t teach me how to string words together or interpret literature. Mrs. Atkinson brought me much more. My life has been enriched by sports and competition. My friendships have flourished through forgiveness and humility, and I know the value of a team coming together in white shorts with a winning attitude for the sake of one among them. There are few people who would ever want to relive their middle school years, but I’d go back in a heartbeat because of Mrs. Atkinson.

 

 

Writing Prompts and a Hike or Two

Published in the Idaho State Journal on February 14, 2021.

Last March when we shut things down due to the pandemic, I knew establishing structure and a routine would be critical. Our boys, in sixth and eighth grade, were settling in to online education. I began working from home, and our social interactions with friends ceased. By April, I was concerned that everything was centered on the computer, and I was worried that the boys were disconnected from friends and family. I decided they needed to write daily. They needed to sit with pencil and paper and simply write.

At first, I wanted them to write letters to grandparents, cousins, and friends. Writing by hand makes the mind aware. Writing to loved ones, makes the heart swell. They weren’t seeing the brilliance of my idea, and they argued and complained, so to show how easy and fun it would be, I joined them.

We sat at the kitchen table after breakfast and wrote for 24 minutes. I would wake at 5 a.m. so I could get some work done early and afford time to write with them. I had established a 30 minute target, but in the course of negotiations, we settled on 24. Our boys have become excellent negotiators in the last 11 months.

When they started to receive letters from their grandparents in Texas or friends across town, they were slightly more eager to write. After so many letters, though, they needed a change-up. We added the option of journaling or creative writing. Their new directive was to always write whatever popped into their heads without concern for grammar, spelling or punctuation.

I didn’t read the oldest’s work, but he flourished with the creative alternative often writing “just a few more sentences” after the timer went off. The youngest developed a series of stories about a female spy in the 1950’s who flew planes all over the world. They weren’t at all interested in journaling about their feelings. When they chose to write a letter, I let them know I would read them as I put them in envelopes. I got a glimpse into their feelings even if they didn’t think they were writing about them.

When I realized I had created this window into their minds and mental health, I started giving them a writing prompt. Some days, I wanted to encourage their thoughts in recalling happy times or things that would evoke joy and hope to kick-start their day. What was your favorite vacation? What will you do with your friends when the pandemic is under control?  Sometimes I asked more serious questions to spawn discussions, so they could get things off their chests and I could offer guidance and support. What do you miss the most since we’ve been socially isolating? When have you been the most afraid in your life?

We stopped writing when school was out for the summer. We kept our “germ unit” intact and isolated and did not eat out or visit friends’ houses. We spent a lot of time hiking. During those hikes, the kids would talk in ways I could imagine them writing. The youngest in particular wanted to be doing things with his friends rather than hiking with us.

When school resumed last fall in the hybrid model, our older son began his freshman year at Pocatello High School. With honors English and debate, he had ample opportunities to write and engage with peers, so we let him phase out of our writing practice. We’ve kept the assignment going for our seventh grader during his online learning days.

I had to get creative with the writing prompts. What do you like about flying? Imagine a day in the life of Franklin. (He is our grumpy 12 year old cat who apparently speaks with a lot of &^%#’s.)  What makes a good friend? Tell me everything in your head about water balloons. How do you feel about returning to in-person learning?

With our public schools resuming full-time in-person learning in March, more writing prompts will connect to that theme.  We’ve talked about why it is happening now. The COVID-19 daily case numbers have shown a declining trend over the last two months indicating less community spread. Hospital beds and resources aren’t at critical levels, so severe cases along with other traumas can receive prompt and adequate care, and teachers who want to be vaccinated should be by then.

The virus is not suddenly gone, but with precautions in place, a return to in-person learning in March makes sense for all of these reasons. While we continue to wade through this pandemic, our seventh grader is undoubtedly processing it in his own unique way. As winter fades to spring, the COVID-19 numbers lessen and vaccines roll out, he’s certainly got things he can write about and share with us. I just need to come up some writing prompts and a hike or two. 

A snow shoe hike off of Scout Mtn Rd

The dogs had a blast!

 

Vacation Revelations

 Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on February 7, 2021

Every year over the winter break, we watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. The 1989 movie starring Chevy Chase is a slapstick comedy that’s become as much a part of our blended family traditions as new pajamas on Christmas Eve and cinnamon monkey bread on Christmas morning.  When the first two movies in the series came out - Vacation in 1983 and European Vacation in 1985 – I was too young to see them in the theater, but they became prime rentals for my friends and me when we got to high school. We watched them over and over and laughed and laughed.

We’ve come to love the Clark W. Griswold family during Christmas, so our brood was on board to watch the other old shows in anticipation of similar giggles.  My recollection was that they were mildly inappropriate and peppered with sophomoric humor that aligns with our boys’ present stages of development. We settled in with our new pajamas, fleece blankets, and dozing dogs to start with the original. I was so excited for us to follow the Griswold family road trip from Chicago to California’s Wally World and revel in the repercussions of Clark’s bad luck and worse choices.

The first city was St. Louis and as the arch showed on the screen, our boys lit up.   Their dad is from Missouri and they have all been to a couple Cardinals baseball games. When Clark took a wrong turn, they ended up in a bad neighborhood. In this show, that means they ended up in a Black neighborhood. Our boys recognized the negative stereotyping immediately.  My wife’s neck whipped around and she glared at me with a mixture of “why are you having them watch this?” and “do you really think this is acceptable let alone funny?”  I had no words to address her stare.

Clark’s wife’s face conveyed nothing but fear. At least Clark was portrayed as clueless, so he didn’t come across prejudiced or overtly racist as he asked for directions back to the interstate. While distracted in the driver’s seat and talking to a Black man in a teal athletic suit, other Black men stole their hubcaps. The camera panned to a gold-chained pimp with three prostitutes flanking him. The only good part of sitting through this scene was the awareness our boys displayed and the disgust they declared at all of it.

With a promise of a family debrief, I convinced everyone to let the movie continue.  During one of the next stops in rural Kansas to see good ole Cousin Eddie, who we’ve come to know from Christmas Vacation, it got worse. When Eddie’s teenage daughter told her cousin “Daddy says I’m a good kisser,” we turned the movie off.

My mom was a child protection worker for crying out loud. I grew up learning that child sexual abuse is never funny. Not ever. How was this show in my head as one of the best stupid movies of all time?

Begging for another chance and assuring them that European Vacation had to be better, I convinced everyone to try it.  

The second show kicked off with the Griswold’s competing on a gameshow called Pig in a Poke where they would go on to win a European Vacation. The show was crafted after the original Family Feud where the relatives lined up to answer questions, and the host infamously kissed all of the female contestants on the lips during introductions.  When the Pig host planted a seconds-long full-mouthed kiss on teen Audrey Griswold, more confused and horrified glares came my way. 

At this point, I wasn’t as interested in being entertained or revisiting laughs. I wanted to dive into an investigation of “how will the rest of this look to me now?”

Some might classify these shows as “politically incorrect nowadays”, but it really goes much deeper than that.  I wish we could eliminate the phrase “politically correct” from present day vernacular and consider something like “compassionately correct” or “culturally considerate” as alternatives.  The Vacation movies’ racial stereotyping and jokes about child sexual abuse have nothing to do with politics, but everything to do with compassion and consideration for fellow human beings. 

Sometimes when we revisit old memories, the hyped nostalgia in our minds doesn’t disappoint. Other times, whether it’s a matter of growing up, shifting tastes or a more widespread changing of the times, an examination of old loves has the potential for unexpected outcomes. My drive down memory lane took a detour I didn’t expect, and I still don’t know exactly where I’m at. Watching the Vacation movies revealed that the last 30 years have remodeled my eyes and conscience. I used to love these movies, but they sure don’t represent what I think is funny today.

 

Inauguration Day

Published in the Idaho State Journal on January 17, 2021.

I never go into the office on Inauguration Day.  Sometimes I take an actual vacation day. Sometimes I work at home in the peace of my personal space. This isn’t an intentionally patriotic act where I watch news coverage and immerse myself in the fruits of our democracy. My mom died on January 20, 2001 - smack dab in the middle of George W. Bush’s first inauguration. Inauguration Day has become my day to force a pause and take stock in my life, my mom’s influence and my world around me.  This one is shaping up to be a doozy.

I always make sure to get in a good workout, write and eat some of Mom’s favorite foods. She was a substantial woman who loved to eat, so that last one is easy. I also tune in to at least a bit of live coverage of the ceremony and imagine what Mom would be thinking, shrieking or cheering.

Heart and lung disease had forced her into retirement just five months earlier to her last inauguration. The TV and email were her connections to the world, and she watched the constant coverage of the Florida recounts to the detriment of her health. With little sleep and a terrible diet in the days before she died, she was sneaking extra oxygen – often wearing two sets of hoses—and rooting for Al Gore. She wasn’t in love with him as a candidate, but among other things, her career as a child protection and social worker led her to align with the Democrats of her lifetime. 

I’ve written columns about that day before – how I had gone shopping for Mom in the morning at the old Fred Meyer, and I wasn’t feeling well after a tonsillectomy a few days prior. I was dreary and glum and in the back of my mind pondering how to approach her about assisted living. I didn’t spend my usual amount of time with her to do chores and visit, and as I left to go nap she said, “Well, it’s a beautiful day out there. I hope you get out and enjoy it.”  When I got into my car, U2’s “Beautiful Day” was on the radio. I smiled at the coincidence.  Those were the last words she spoke to me.

Although she had voted for Al Gore, Mom still watched George W. Bush’s inauguration and the all-day coverage. I had called a couple times later to check on her, and when she hadn’t answered, I knew.   The TV was on when I got there.

During Barrack Obama’s first inauguration, I took a full vacation day. I went to the gym and spent a little extra time wearing myself out. I dilly-dallied at home with a few things before turning on the TV to play in the background while I putzed around the house. Paying little attention, I hit the power button on the remote with my back to the screen.  Suddenly “Beautiful Day” was playing. I flipped around to see footage of the Mall in Washington DC as crowds were forming and dignitaries were arriving. The song was booming across the speakers at the event.

Four years later on the day of Obama’s second inauguration, I went to a 5:30 am spin class. I needed to work at home that day, so I got an early start that morning on the exercise bike.  I had been attending this class for a few months and been somewhat of a regular each winter. The instructor would change her playlists now and then and on that day, she pulled out something new. As the end of the hour neared, she promised the cool-down song was coming. Without warning, there it was – U2’s “Beautiful Day.”

It’s been a lifelong lesson for me that Mom used the word “beautiful” to describe the day she died - the day her body was failing her and the day that a man she didn’t vote for took office. She still saw the beauty.

This will be the fourth inauguration that mom’s missed. Sometimes I think she died on Inauguration Day just to get me to pay attention to all that it could possibly entail. Transition. Rebirth. Opportunity. Beauty. My eyes are wide open looking for these things on Inauguration Day. And, I always find them.

Hello, January

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on January 3, 2021.

While writing last week’s piece I was in a chipper emotional state having revisited my smiles of 2020 in a photo project for our kids. This week, I just spilled an exquisitely blended cup of coffee and eggnog all over my laptop keyboard. I’m typing this on my phone with my thumbs. What a fitting farewell to 2020 and perfect prelude to 2021. Hello, January.

I don’t like January. My favorite dog died in January six years ago. My mom died in January twenty years ago, and although it’s just weeks after the winter solstice indicating the days will start getting lighter, we still have 14 hours of darkness on any given day.  January is dreadful and dark.

I’ve considered that I might need antidepressants in the winter. When I first heard about seasonal affective disorder or SAD (my, how fitting), I realized I fit the bill beautifully. I have, so far, managed each mounting January with an awareness and acceptance of how the “winter blues” affect me, but also with the gold standard mental health tricks of healthy eating, increased water, and daily exercise.  January is sit-ups and celery.

When January and I do get along, it’s because I am the one making all of the effort.  I kick off the new year with a weekly meal prep comprised of recipes and vegetables. I plant healthy snacks around the house with inspirational and cautionary sticky notes.  An arsenal of herbal tea is assembled at home and at work, and I get up earlier to ensure there’s time for exercise.  I check the weather app for forecasts of sun and arrange those workdays by a window with time outside. Our dogs love a cold, sunny mid-day walk, and the bounce in their steps with wind-sniffing smiles inspire the same in me. January is effort and intention.

The only thing January seems to bring to our relationship is the appearance of a fresh start. After this past year, I’m certainly up for a fresh start in various avenues. I can envision so many possibilities with my career, fitness, friendships and general habits, but that also feels stressful with the confines and influence of the COVID-19 pandemic still in full swing.  Does this fresh start have to happen immediately? January is promise and pressure.

Every winter, I go on a trip to Vegas for a long weekend.  The joyous preparation takes up brain space in the weeks beforehand, and the afterglow usually carries me right into March. Spending three days surrounded by the bustle, cigarette smoke and “sin” make me appreciate tranquil, fresh, wholesome Idaho. As the trips wind down, I can’t wait to get home. I have some dear friends with birthdays in January and we usually enjoy game nights and fanfare, but none of that will be happening in 2021.  This January will be lonesome and different.

People often tell me I would like January more if I skied. I’ve tried it on a number of occasions and, even with the latest and greatest ski technology, it’s a no-go for this former rugby player’s back and knees. With my love of mountain biking, winter fat-biking would seem like a natural fit, but I’m a purist and want the dirt beneath my wheels and the hot sun on my shoulders.   January’s misery is probably why I feel such love for June and September in southeast Idaho.   January is the grueling uphill before the magnificent descent. 

As Kindergarten as it may sound, whatever this January will be is up to me. The dreadful and dark. The sit-ups and celery. The effort and intention. The promise and pressure or lonesome and different. January will always be a hill I have to climb. And here it is. I best get pedaling.

How are you?

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on December 27, 2020.

Earlier during the pandemic, my wife told me I should quit asking people how they are because it forces them to lie.  No one is doing “well” or “fine” these days. With regard to answering the question, she’s probably right about people who are polite, private and introverted like she is. People like me, however, who are boundary-challenged and blurt out overshares have no problem answering honestly. 

Depending on the time of day, you’ll get a different answer from me as to how I am doing. At the time of this writing for instance? I’m good. Great in fact. I’ve been going through all of our digital photographs from the year to make photo collages for our 12 and 15 year old boys as New Year’s gifts. (They’re unlikely to read this, but shhhhh.  Please don’t spoil the surprise.) The smiles in our pictures present the bits of joy we experienced in 2020, and I’ve been sitting here reliving it.

Before the March shutdowns, I worked from home often. The nature of my job has me running software at all hours of the day. I will often work while we watch movies in the evenings, kick things off to run overnight, and analyze results first thing in the morning over a cup of coffee. On March 16, however, I checked out a monitor, my custom green office chair and a plastic chair mat to set up a semi-permanent office area in my basement. With a 6-foot Costco table next to a space heater and the cat gym, I was prepared to work from home as long as needed.

When the work force trickled back into office settings in June, I was still doing my morning and evening work tasks at home but returned to the facility fulltime. I have my own hard-walled office where I’m able to work mask-free, and when I need to collaborate with colleagues or walk through common areas, I mask up and carry on as “normal.” As far as the pandemic has gone, I’ve felt extreme gratitude swirled with a touch of guilt at how fortunate I am to not only have kept working, but to be working in environments that are low risk for COVID-19.

My wife, however, works in the lab at a hospital. She has a seven-on/seven-off shift that’s aligned to have her working both Thanksgiving and Christmas in 2020. She's one of the few who run their COVID-19 tests, so her paws are in it daily. She wears an N95 for her ten-hour shift, and when she’s worn one out and gets a new one, the out-of-the-box elasticity leaves grooves, almost cuts, on her face. There are extra shields, hoods and precautions when she's working with live samples, but she’s got a relentless shroud of unease that she will bring the virus home to her kids or her asthmatic and now-out-of-shape wife. I can see the heavy effects of her job first hand while she sees the even heavier effects on the doctors, nurses and other healthcare workers alongside her.

It’s no wonder she suggested I quit asking people how they are doing.  Not only do we have strikingly different personalities, our professional pandemic experiences have been poles apart. Following her advice, I did stop asking my friends and acquaintances how they were doing. The older I get, the more I realize that striving to treat others as I would like to be treated isn’t always the best route. Sure, it’s a good guide, but with our innate differences, to be a good friend, partner and even citizen, I’m getting better at seeking to treat others how they would like to be treated, aside from what I might prefer.

My wife got her first shot of the COVID-19 vaccine last week. The picture she sent immediately following shows her sleeve raised with a Band-Aid at the shot site and, although her mask covers much of her face, I can see the brightest smiling eyes of 2020. That picture is going right in the center of the boys’ photo medley.

This gift for the kids is meant to highlight the rainbows among the rain in 2020, and it has been marvelously therapeutic for me.  Even when I thought we were not doing well or fine, I can see that we were doing okay. I often want to fix things and solve all the problems, but this past year I couldn’t. I’ve had to learn that listening can be as important as fixing, and with that I am going to go back to asking people how they are. If people feel moved to give me a lying “fine”, that’s okay, but as I’ve seen our 2020 replayed in these photographs, I’ve got a renewed energy to ask and listen. How are you?