The story everyone wants to hear, is how could you leave your son when you became a VISTA volunteer? This is the hardest story to tell. My son is my earth and sky. My leaving him behind ripped my heart to shreds. When you have a child, there is nothing you wouldn't do to keep him safe and happy. My leaving was to make sure he still had a Momma. I was on the verge of doing something stupid. If I did not get out of town, I would be dead. I have said this to him. He has forgiven me and we have never been closer.
For the first 12 years of his life, my son lived with me for a week and his father for a week. I held full custody, but his father lived in a better neighborhood, with good schools. It worked for us.
One night at dinner, my 11 year old announced he wanted to be a priest. He was in a private Catholic school. A priest? I asked him. I really wanted to hear how he came to this idea. This could possibly make me the first Jewish momma whose son became a priest.
I want to help people he replied. So you want to be a priest because you want to help people? I asked. Yup, as he bit into his hamburger. Okay I am thinking. I love his reasoning, but a priest?? Nothing wrong with priests mind you, but my son? A priest?
A few weeks pass, and we don't talk about his aspirations of becoming a priest. At dinner, I ask him, so how is the whole priest thing going? Still thinking about it? Nope he replied Why not as I try put my water glass down. Priests can't have dogs, so I am not going to be a priest he told me. What do you mean, Priest's can't have dogs? Well he explained, the parish pays for your house and your food, and I don't think its right to have the parish pay for dog food. As a silent thank you was sent up to the gods for our two dogs, I could not get over the thought this kid had put into this priest idea. Leave this kid, really?
We were always great together, my kid and me. I never had any expendable income, so we always had fun on what little money I did have. One year, for his birthday, I had found the cutest little cottage, right on the Potomac River to move to. One of my gifts to him was to surprise him with it. As we started driving to the wildlife refuge down the road from the new house, I told him to put his coat over his face. He did and we laughed as I kept teasing him about what the surprise could be. We pull in front of the house and I told him to move his coat. His face lit up like a christmas tree. You can't put a price on those moments.
While we were living in that little cottage, I met a man. I call him the idiot now, but at the time, he seemed to be a good man. It had been a very long time since my last long-term relationship and my divorce from my son's father, and I was ready to fall in love again. The idiot was the extreme opposite of my ex-husband. Where one was angry, the other was almost timid. Where one was controlling, the other wasn't. He was easy and comfortable. He loved my son and my son liked him. So I married him.
Without going into all the dirty details I know everyone really wants to hear, the relationship went south, really fast. And it was ugly. We separated after discussing what was going wrong and started seeing a marriage counselor. That went well for a couple of weeks. Then he began to accuse me of horrible things. And he stalked me.
The idiot would come in the house and leave me pictures of himself and crazy notes like "I'll be home for dinner honey". Still creeps me out. I got the locks changed, and he was able to get a key made because his name was still on the lease. He wasn't paying anything mind you, but he could still claim his "residency". He pulled a small tube looking thing out of his pocket one day and told me it was a bug, and he had bugged my house. We had a room for my son, with the light switch on the outside of the room. When the idiot wouldn't leave, I took to staying in that room with the door locked. One night he kept flicking the light switch off and on, all night long. This was bad, but it was about to get much worse.
I was working full time at a very large, very secure company, and part time at night waiting tables. I worked a part time job primarily because I was afraid to go home. I was always scared that he would be there. There were nights I hid my little car behind a huge rhodendrum tree and got ready for bed in the dark so he wouldn't know I was home. If he was there, I rented a hotel room or slept on my mother's couch. One night when I thought it was safe, he came in the house in the middle of the night mutterng "god damn bitch, where are you?" He was drunk and I was hiding in a closet. My son was staying at his Dad's house because I knew he would be safe there and I didn't want to subject him to this behaviour. Momma is not afraid of anything and he knew that. Momma was actually terrified for years.
Get a restraining order, right? This is serious crazy behavior. Three times I went to the police to try to get a restraining order against him. Three times I was turned down. I was on my own.
The epic stupid white trash cops moment came the night I locked myself in the bedroom with my german shepard. The idiot starts screaming at me through the door. I called the 911. He took the hinges off the locked door and came at me, literally snarling. I am not hiding any more. I get out of the bed and start pushing him out of the bedroom, out of the house. We are both yelling at this point. I'm yelling get out of my house! Get out of my house! My girl Kia was trying to bite him. And then the police come, and get him to leave. I am living an episode of cops. This is my life: nice Jewish girl of a certain age from a good background being talked down by a police officer.
Momma is no fool and Momma is not afraid of anything. Except spiders. I contacted the security people at the really big corporation I worked at and got his phone number blocked. He could not get to me at the really big corporation. And I started plans to find another place to live where he couldn't find me. I found a new house and moved on a Monday morning with my brother standing outside the house, armed. The idiot had the good sense not to show up that day.
Life was getting back to my sense of normal, until I got a phone call from the police department. I needed to go down to the police department for some paperwork. I was at work and naive enough to think this had to do with the three orders of protection I was trying to get. My police station visit was not to protect me from the idiot. My police station visit was to arrest me for assualt and battery. Against him. He filed an assault and battery charge against me, and there was a warrant for my arrest because of it.
I have never been in trouble with the law. I've never raised my hand, and rarely my voice, in anger. Assault and battery.
They did not arrest me because they recognized me from the first THREE times I had been down there to try to get an order of protection. I was not booked, or fingerprinted or anything. They knew it was a ridiculous claim, but they had to let me know I had a court date. Where I am the Defendent. After a blessed few weeks of semi-stability, I am terrified again. This time, about going to jail on charges that I assaulted him. After he took the door off the hinges to get to me.
My life was spiraling out of control and all I could do was react. I hired a bitch of a lawyer and my closest friend went to court with me. He was alone. No one to "support" him. My case comes up and I am the Defendent. I am the one closest to the jail door with the big people with guns. And handcuffs.
The Judge call me to testify and I explain what happened that night. I called 911. He took the door off its hinges to get to me. My dog was jumping on him in defense of me. All of it is true, however I am seriously concerned that I am going to jail. This had reached such a level of absurdity that going to jail was a real possibility at that moment.
Then the Judge called the idiot to the stand. It was a thing of beauty. In his own words, he said he did what I said he did. He even had photos of the "bruises" I inflicted on him. The Judge never looked at the photos. The Judge looked at me. Then he looked at the idiot and said this case is worthless and threw my case out. No jail for me. To this day, I swear he had someone beat him up for those pictures. He is just that much of an idiot.
My girlfriend and I leave the courthouse with my attorney and he is right there, continuing to make threats. We kept walking to the car and once in the car, he was riding our tail, flipping us/me off. We went to a diner and she expressed her concerns for my safety. At this point, I am angry. Really angry. No one is going to mess with me ever again I told her. He's a creep and an idiot and I am seeing a very large and protective man. Like my Kia, he will protect me.
Six months later, I am on my way to bet you can't find it on a map, Blanding Utah. My life had been turned upside sideways by this three year experience and I couldn't subject my son to any more ugliness. I ran. I ran to the furthest place I could be from Virginia to feel safe again. Because of my relationship with his father, I knew my son would be safe, going to a great school, and getting ready for the rest of his life. I could not bring him to the middle of nowhere, Blanding Utah.
I have two very big regrets in my life. The first is leaving my boy because of the actions of a certifiable idiot. The second is another story.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wheels Continue to Turn
I am 52 years old. I am strong, comitted, passionate and able. I have been unemployed for 18 months. Technically I am not unemployed any longer because I have a 24 hour a week job. All the experience and leadership skills I have acquired and used over the years, have bit the dust.
I had a pretty good run back east. I have skills in human resources, promotions and event planning at the administrative and executive level. I have worked for large corporations and small non-profits and have awards for leadership and promotions. So what. All those wonderful, hard-earned skills did not keep me from making bad relationship decisions, which inevitably drove me away from the east coast.
I set out for bet you can't find it on a map, Blanding Utah with a sense of joy and urgency. I wasn't running from anything, necessarily. Except for the idiot and the evil one. I didn't think I was running, but I was. At the time, I knew my future and destiny lay in the middle of nowhere Blanding Utah. It was time to reinvent myself. And I did.
My self reinvention was not taking on a new personna, or changing my name and dropping underground until the coast was clear. My self reinvention was internal. I was going to be living in the middle of nowhere, Blanding Utah, working, as it turned out, in economic development. At the time, I had no idea where I would be living or what I would be doing. The randomness of it all was breathtaking.
I found my passion in economic and community development in the wilds of Utah. I found that I am in fact capable of anything I set my mind to. I can make it work by sheer will. For ten years, I was at the top of my game. I was on the ground, working with communities, listening to their issues and making plans to make it work.
It is funny how the wheel continues to turn. I have gone from the top of my game, to the very basement. My learned skills really don't matter any longer. I have been actively working looking for work, and it is a full time job. At 52, I am not 25 and "teachable". At 52, I can't even get an interview for an $8 hour receptionist position. I have fourteen bazillion different copies of my resume, each de-emphasizing my skills and abilities a little more each time I write a new resume for an $8 hour retail position.
I was angry for a long time. I am not angry any longer. I have come to realize that what I have achieved, I have achieved, and no one can take that from me. Now new doors are opening, in places and for things I would never have considered 18 months ago. I am a blank slate. I am ready to learn something new. I need to shelve those leadership skills, keep my opinions to myself and learn.
Cleal Bradford, my mentor in Blanding Utah as a VISTA, said it best: "Karyle, you need to learn to sit down, shut up and listen". It took ten years, but I am ready to listen, quietly.
I had a pretty good run back east. I have skills in human resources, promotions and event planning at the administrative and executive level. I have worked for large corporations and small non-profits and have awards for leadership and promotions. So what. All those wonderful, hard-earned skills did not keep me from making bad relationship decisions, which inevitably drove me away from the east coast.
I set out for bet you can't find it on a map, Blanding Utah with a sense of joy and urgency. I wasn't running from anything, necessarily. Except for the idiot and the evil one. I didn't think I was running, but I was. At the time, I knew my future and destiny lay in the middle of nowhere Blanding Utah. It was time to reinvent myself. And I did.
My self reinvention was not taking on a new personna, or changing my name and dropping underground until the coast was clear. My self reinvention was internal. I was going to be living in the middle of nowhere, Blanding Utah, working, as it turned out, in economic development. At the time, I had no idea where I would be living or what I would be doing. The randomness of it all was breathtaking.
I found my passion in economic and community development in the wilds of Utah. I found that I am in fact capable of anything I set my mind to. I can make it work by sheer will. For ten years, I was at the top of my game. I was on the ground, working with communities, listening to their issues and making plans to make it work.
It is funny how the wheel continues to turn. I have gone from the top of my game, to the very basement. My learned skills really don't matter any longer. I have been actively working looking for work, and it is a full time job. At 52, I am not 25 and "teachable". At 52, I can't even get an interview for an $8 hour receptionist position. I have fourteen bazillion different copies of my resume, each de-emphasizing my skills and abilities a little more each time I write a new resume for an $8 hour retail position.
I was angry for a long time. I am not angry any longer. I have come to realize that what I have achieved, I have achieved, and no one can take that from me. Now new doors are opening, in places and for things I would never have considered 18 months ago. I am a blank slate. I am ready to learn something new. I need to shelve those leadership skills, keep my opinions to myself and learn.
Cleal Bradford, my mentor in Blanding Utah as a VISTA, said it best: "Karyle, you need to learn to sit down, shut up and listen". It took ten years, but I am ready to listen, quietly.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Giving It Up
We are having a yard sale this weekend and as both of us are hoarders, giving up stuff hurts.
It is a bit easier for me than for Jeff, because I am used to giving up stuff. During the best mid-life crisis ever, I sold, donated, stored or gave away everything I owned. I shipped what I thought I needed in 4 boxes to the middle of nowhere, Blanding Utah. The coffee maker did not make it. Otherwise, downsizing complete.
During the first part of my life changing mid-life crisis, I lived with boxes. I never threw a box out because I knew I would be moving on and frankly boxes are expensive. My Grandpa used to call me a rolling stone, because I was always on the move. Literally, on the move. He also thought I should run for Mayor of Farmington, New Mexico. How I love and miss that man.
I have always embraced change Embrace is a good word for it, unless the change is moumentally hurtful, and then change becomes a defense mechanism. During my best mid-life crisis ever yard sale, I set up the front yard at 2am. Who can sleep when their entire life is laid out in the front yard for strangers to paw through and put a price on? This yard sale was going to fund my trip to middle of nowhere Blanding Utah, with extra to live on.
The piano went. The living room and bedroom furniture went. My beloved collection of clocks that make noise went. I kept the howling wolf clock that my son gave me, and a chicken clock that sings. The other dozen clocks were gone. I am not the only one with questionable collectors taste.
My corporate clothes went, including my full length, faux leapard print coat. I loved that coat. It was long and warm, and just crazy enough to work. My heels, gone. I wore nothing but heels and cowboy boots my whole life. Now I was down to the one pair of cowboy boots I owned and flip flops. It is stinking hot in middle of nowhere Blanding Utah. Those boots were so cool. They were red with black cut outs. Mobil Oil payed for them with a bonus I received. I wore them to work, a lot. I can be buttoned up with the best of them, but ya gotta color outside the lines every once in a while.
I was amazed at how much stuff I had accumulated over 20 years. When I divorced my first husband, I walked away from everything. The nice house. White picket fence. Nice cars. My parents were furious that I left things behind that they had given me. Those "things" were not worth the cost of fighting for them. That man controlled my life. He wants it. He gets it. I was gone and that was all I cared about. Stuff is replaceable. Self worth is harder to replace.
Yard sales are cleansing. I desperately try to live by the rule of "if you haven't used it, worn it or thought of it in a year, it's out". With the exception of those jeans I know will fit in a year or my music collection. And my books. Jeff, bless his heart, is threatening me with violence if I even mention selling some of his tools. Oh my gosh, no one comes between a man and his tools.
I'm not used to having a man in my life that is capable of fixing things. My way of fixing things is to call someone to come and fix it. I'm sure I could learn how to fix things, but I prefer not to. I have been independent for so long, that I am not used to having a man who can fix things. One morning, I looked out the kitchen window, and my truck was looking weird. "Jeff, come look at the truck, I think something is wrong with her". Jeff takes one look and says "you've got a flat tire". Really? "Who do I call" I ask him. He looked at me with biwilderment and said "I can fix a flat tire". Really I asked? Yeah, I am that stupid sometimes.
I have come to a point in my life, where I don't want to sell anthing. I am nesting in Montana. We have a pretty big house, however we have reached overload. Our love of auctions doesnt help. This will be harder on Jeff than on me. I've been to this rodeo and it is scarey and fun at the same time. Once you get over the idea of strangers not thinking your stuff is good enough to add to their stuff, a yard sale can be fun just because of the people you meet. Of course I stalk total strangers at gas pumps to talk to them, so maybe its just me.
It is a bit easier for me than for Jeff, because I am used to giving up stuff. During the best mid-life crisis ever, I sold, donated, stored or gave away everything I owned. I shipped what I thought I needed in 4 boxes to the middle of nowhere, Blanding Utah. The coffee maker did not make it. Otherwise, downsizing complete.
During the first part of my life changing mid-life crisis, I lived with boxes. I never threw a box out because I knew I would be moving on and frankly boxes are expensive. My Grandpa used to call me a rolling stone, because I was always on the move. Literally, on the move. He also thought I should run for Mayor of Farmington, New Mexico. How I love and miss that man.
I have always embraced change Embrace is a good word for it, unless the change is moumentally hurtful, and then change becomes a defense mechanism. During my best mid-life crisis ever yard sale, I set up the front yard at 2am. Who can sleep when their entire life is laid out in the front yard for strangers to paw through and put a price on? This yard sale was going to fund my trip to middle of nowhere Blanding Utah, with extra to live on.
The piano went. The living room and bedroom furniture went. My beloved collection of clocks that make noise went. I kept the howling wolf clock that my son gave me, and a chicken clock that sings. The other dozen clocks were gone. I am not the only one with questionable collectors taste.
My corporate clothes went, including my full length, faux leapard print coat. I loved that coat. It was long and warm, and just crazy enough to work. My heels, gone. I wore nothing but heels and cowboy boots my whole life. Now I was down to the one pair of cowboy boots I owned and flip flops. It is stinking hot in middle of nowhere Blanding Utah. Those boots were so cool. They were red with black cut outs. Mobil Oil payed for them with a bonus I received. I wore them to work, a lot. I can be buttoned up with the best of them, but ya gotta color outside the lines every once in a while.
I was amazed at how much stuff I had accumulated over 20 years. When I divorced my first husband, I walked away from everything. The nice house. White picket fence. Nice cars. My parents were furious that I left things behind that they had given me. Those "things" were not worth the cost of fighting for them. That man controlled my life. He wants it. He gets it. I was gone and that was all I cared about. Stuff is replaceable. Self worth is harder to replace.
Yard sales are cleansing. I desperately try to live by the rule of "if you haven't used it, worn it or thought of it in a year, it's out". With the exception of those jeans I know will fit in a year or my music collection. And my books. Jeff, bless his heart, is threatening me with violence if I even mention selling some of his tools. Oh my gosh, no one comes between a man and his tools.
I'm not used to having a man in my life that is capable of fixing things. My way of fixing things is to call someone to come and fix it. I'm sure I could learn how to fix things, but I prefer not to. I have been independent for so long, that I am not used to having a man who can fix things. One morning, I looked out the kitchen window, and my truck was looking weird. "Jeff, come look at the truck, I think something is wrong with her". Jeff takes one look and says "you've got a flat tire". Really? "Who do I call" I ask him. He looked at me with biwilderment and said "I can fix a flat tire". Really I asked? Yeah, I am that stupid sometimes.
I have come to a point in my life, where I don't want to sell anthing. I am nesting in Montana. We have a pretty big house, however we have reached overload. Our love of auctions doesnt help. This will be harder on Jeff than on me. I've been to this rodeo and it is scarey and fun at the same time. Once you get over the idea of strangers not thinking your stuff is good enough to add to their stuff, a yard sale can be fun just because of the people you meet. Of course I stalk total strangers at gas pumps to talk to them, so maybe its just me.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Spiritual Awakenings
The Last Pink House on Cowboy Sreet can also be found in Livingston Montana. While in Utah and New Mexico, I embraced the spiritual elements of the Navajo and Ute tribes. All hogans face east to greet the day. The Bear Dance is danced to bring bring in a good harvest and help Bear find his way to warm hiberation through the winter. Kivas, left by the Anastazi are sacred spaces. The Anastazi painted a perfect sun dagger location in Chaco Canyon to capture the sun dagger at solstice. Going hiking the back country and finding a Navajo sweat lodge that was seriously old grounded me to the power of belief.
Artificats found on Indian land, like rock painting can only be seen from the back of a horse with an Indian guide, or in the backcountry on foot. My soul was awakened by my experience in Utah and New Mexico. There was a balance and a faltering like a gyroscope.
After leaving the desert southwest for the east coast, I felt an emptiness. As diverse and culturally exciting and interesting DC is, I never had the feeling that I belonged. I fit in really well but something was lacking. I kept looking for a link back to the west.
My destination was Livingston Montana. (Parental warning; obcentity will be used). I have wanted to live in Montana since I was a kid. I Really wanted to go to MSU, in Bozeman. When the job offer came in, my first reaction to my friends is I'm going to fucking Montana! Who does this?? It was never just I'm going to Montana, it was always fucking Montana. Still is actually.
I felt that I would be able to reawaken my spirtuality and connectedness with the earth in the Northern Rockies. It has taken six years, but I believe I am on a journey of discovery and reconnectedness with the tribes, this time the Crow.
Livingston is a cool little town, but if you see anyone of color, you notice. I have never lived in such a homogenous place. Taking a road trip one Saturday, Jeff and I stopped at huge roadsign sign telling you where you are (between the Bridgers, the Beartooth and the Absorkees) and the Crow tribe had been deeded that land in the 1800's. There is not an Indian, that I have seen, for 100's of miles from that road sign.
My spiritual awakening also incorporates my Jewish heritage and traditions. I turned my back on Judiasm and any other organizated relgion for 30 years. I remember thinking my mother gets so much from her practice of Judiasm. She was even Bat Mitzvahed at age 65. I did not have any good feeling whenever I stepped foot in a synagogue and I remember cursing God and walking out of Yom Kippur services and never looking back.
I am beginning to get it. We have an amazing Rabbi in Chabad who is not only one of the coolest people I have met, but wise and extremely open to people like Jeff, who is not Jewish, or me, who is Jewish, to explain and talk and discuss. Chabad is ultra orthdox. Men are seperated from women by a wood screen during services. Strangly, I am not offended by the segregation. Most women are very conservative and wear long skirts/dresses and the Rabbi's wife always wears a wig in public.
Now is my time to try to connect with the spiritual through the elements of earth, air, fire and water and incorporate that to my Jewish heritage. Living in the Northern Rockies is wonderful and hard.
Close your eyes and Jump. You will either be Caught, or Learn to Fly.
Artificats found on Indian land, like rock painting can only be seen from the back of a horse with an Indian guide, or in the backcountry on foot. My soul was awakened by my experience in Utah and New Mexico. There was a balance and a faltering like a gyroscope.
After leaving the desert southwest for the east coast, I felt an emptiness. As diverse and culturally exciting and interesting DC is, I never had the feeling that I belonged. I fit in really well but something was lacking. I kept looking for a link back to the west.
My destination was Livingston Montana. (Parental warning; obcentity will be used). I have wanted to live in Montana since I was a kid. I Really wanted to go to MSU, in Bozeman. When the job offer came in, my first reaction to my friends is I'm going to fucking Montana! Who does this?? It was never just I'm going to Montana, it was always fucking Montana. Still is actually.
I felt that I would be able to reawaken my spirtuality and connectedness with the earth in the Northern Rockies. It has taken six years, but I believe I am on a journey of discovery and reconnectedness with the tribes, this time the Crow.
Livingston is a cool little town, but if you see anyone of color, you notice. I have never lived in such a homogenous place. Taking a road trip one Saturday, Jeff and I stopped at huge roadsign sign telling you where you are (between the Bridgers, the Beartooth and the Absorkees) and the Crow tribe had been deeded that land in the 1800's. There is not an Indian, that I have seen, for 100's of miles from that road sign.
My spiritual awakening also incorporates my Jewish heritage and traditions. I turned my back on Judiasm and any other organizated relgion for 30 years. I remember thinking my mother gets so much from her practice of Judiasm. She was even Bat Mitzvahed at age 65. I did not have any good feeling whenever I stepped foot in a synagogue and I remember cursing God and walking out of Yom Kippur services and never looking back.
I am beginning to get it. We have an amazing Rabbi in Chabad who is not only one of the coolest people I have met, but wise and extremely open to people like Jeff, who is not Jewish, or me, who is Jewish, to explain and talk and discuss. Chabad is ultra orthdox. Men are seperated from women by a wood screen during services. Strangly, I am not offended by the segregation. Most women are very conservative and wear long skirts/dresses and the Rabbi's wife always wears a wig in public.
Now is my time to try to connect with the spiritual through the elements of earth, air, fire and water and incorporate that to my Jewish heritage. Living in the Northern Rockies is wonderful and hard.
Close your eyes and Jump. You will either be Caught, or Learn to Fly.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
How Are You???
This weekend, we honor America in light of 9-11. Until August 2011, the majority of my friends and all of my family were in DC. I wasn't in DC. I was in the middle of nowhere Utah.
I had been a VISTA for two weeks, in bet you can't find it on a map, Blanding Utah. My job was to work with the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum to draw tourists to an incredible Museum in middle of nowhere. It was 8:30am, mountain time, and I was on my way to work. There's not much to choose from musically in the middle of nowhere Utah, but there is NPR.
A plane has crashed into one of the World Trade Towers the announcer said. I knew, immediately, this was not a horrible accident. 15 minutes later, another plane crashed into the 2nd Tower. I was right. I made it to work and broke down. Everyone was wondering, why? Who would do this? Then the third plane hit the Pentagon. That's when it got personal. My mother lives five miles away from the Pentagon. My son went to school five miles away from the Pentagon. Everyone you know in Northern Virginia commutes into DC and probably works at the Pentagon.
In times of great sorrow, being around people, especially those you love, helps. I was 2500 miles away from the people I most loved and couldn't reach any of them for hours. I stayed at work because I was near a phone and used it every five minutes it seemed. My mother was playing golf at the Army/Navy golf course and watched the plane as it headed into the Pentagon. My son, in private school, was in lockdown. A dear friend's husband was in DC working and couldn't get out of town.
I am blessed that I did not have any friends or family hurt or killed during the attacks. One of the VISTAs lost a friend in the World Trade Center.
Four of my VISTA friends lived together in a house not far from mine. They had a little bit of a 9" TV with antena and foil. We hugged and cried and tried to see what was going on through the static. One of them asked me if I was going to go back home. I said no. There was nothing I could do to help anyone. Everyone I held dear was safe. Safe and terrified as we all were, no matter where you were at the time.
My landlord had cable TV. All of us crowded into his bedroom for the next 4 days, rivited to the TV screen. Watching, again and again, people falling. People covered in ash. The planes hitting those buildings over and over. The enormous cloud that followed the 2nd Tower's destruction. I have always wished the media had paid more attention to Flight 93. Those people were heros. I pray everytime I board a plane, that should something happen, I'd be couragous enough to help do something about it.
On some weirdly odd level, it makes sense that if we were to be attacked, the Pentagon would be a likely target. And it was. Today, there is a memorial at the Pentagon with a sculpture that is hard to describe but does in fact capture the moment and the strength of our country.
As VISTAs, we wanted to do something. We had to do something. We thought starting a blood donation bank would be a great first step. There was no community support for our idea. Nothing like that will ever happen in bet you can't find it on a map Utah. I know ExxonMobil was concerned, because they had oil fields 50 miles away. No matter where you are, you cannot live in a cocoon.
I cannot get my brain around what it must have been like living in a war zone. Living so close to the Quantico Marine Base, and the Nation's Capital, I was used to seeing the big, ugly helicoptors , the convoys of military on the beltway, and watching the three helicoptors the President uses when he flies overhead. I cannot begin to imagine seeing surfact to air missles parked along the side of the beltway. I never imagined I would see armed military service people carrying AK-47's and using dogs as they patrtrolled the airport in Salt Lake City.
I have to hand it to President Bush during this horrible time in our history. When he stood on the mound of what was left of the World Trade Center with the Fire Chief and said we will find who did this, I was proud to be an American. When he addressed the country abou the attacks, I was proud to be an American.
In bet you can't find it on a map, Utah, everyone was talking about the attacks. Everyone was impacted by the horrible loss of that day. I worked for a 76 year old Morman cowboy, named Cleal Bradford. There is a love/hate relationship with Cleal amongst a lot of people, but I hold a special place in my heart for him. The main reason I hold him dear is what he did three days after the attack; the national day of mourning.
Cleal suggested Kelly and I go with him to a little known natural bridge formation, not far from the place we worked. We hiked for about 1/2 an hour, and there it was. Nothing dramatic like you would see
at Bridges National Park, but a natural bridge in the making. If you didn't know it was there, you would probably miss it. We sat on rocks or in the dirt, and Cleal suggested we each say something about how we feel about the tragedy of 9-11. I don't remember specifically what was said by Kelly or myself, however I do remember Cleal, at 76 years of age, dropping to his knees in the dirt, and praying. That moment, when it was just the three of us and the desert, was perfect. We cried. We sat in silence. We were together, each of us mourning and praying in our own way to whatever God we believed in.
I have always been a student of history. Since 9-11, I have read nearly everything I can get my hands on regarding the Taliban, Central Asia, the Middle East, and our own country's history and current actions with the region. I want to understand why 9-11 happened. I want to understand the cultures our country must understand before anything can become better, or whatever normal looks like. Americans cannot change the world in our image. A large portion of the world hates us. A decade after 9-11, I still don't understand why we are hated. As a VISTA, I worked with seperate tribes that have a history of hating each other. They don't kill each other anymore, unless there is alcohol involved.
When my friends husband finally was able to get out of DC, he was in shock. I called to check on them and he told me there should be a "test" to "prove" you are a good American. A test? I asked him. What sort of questions should be on this test? He answered you have to know American football teams and some other things of equal importance to being a "true" American. I told him I wouldn't pass the test because what do I know from football? Does that mean I'm a terrorist and not a true American? He couldn't answer that one, but he was obviously in shock about what he had experienced.
One of my firmest wishes is that we do not take for granted the fact that this country, our country, is made up of diversity. Jews, Catholics, Muslims, black, red, and brown. America cannot expect our system of democracy and open government to work in Central Asia, the Middle East, or Sweden for that matter. The root of the problem is lack of education and infrastructure, not working behind the scenes electing a "President" of a country which has never experienced democracy in generations or a lifetime.
As a VISTA, I was working with people with real issues. Individual people, or families. In my humble opinion, 9-11 opened our eyes to our vulnerablities. We are not vulnerable and I will not live in fear that I don't have enoug duct tape or canned goods to survive. If I do feel that way, the terrorists have won and will continue to win by breaking us down.
No one breaks America. God bless us all and God bless those who gave so much during that terrible time.
I had been a VISTA for two weeks, in bet you can't find it on a map, Blanding Utah. My job was to work with the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum to draw tourists to an incredible Museum in middle of nowhere. It was 8:30am, mountain time, and I was on my way to work. There's not much to choose from musically in the middle of nowhere Utah, but there is NPR.
A plane has crashed into one of the World Trade Towers the announcer said. I knew, immediately, this was not a horrible accident. 15 minutes later, another plane crashed into the 2nd Tower. I was right. I made it to work and broke down. Everyone was wondering, why? Who would do this? Then the third plane hit the Pentagon. That's when it got personal. My mother lives five miles away from the Pentagon. My son went to school five miles away from the Pentagon. Everyone you know in Northern Virginia commutes into DC and probably works at the Pentagon.
In times of great sorrow, being around people, especially those you love, helps. I was 2500 miles away from the people I most loved and couldn't reach any of them for hours. I stayed at work because I was near a phone and used it every five minutes it seemed. My mother was playing golf at the Army/Navy golf course and watched the plane as it headed into the Pentagon. My son, in private school, was in lockdown. A dear friend's husband was in DC working and couldn't get out of town.
I am blessed that I did not have any friends or family hurt or killed during the attacks. One of the VISTAs lost a friend in the World Trade Center.
Four of my VISTA friends lived together in a house not far from mine. They had a little bit of a 9" TV with antena and foil. We hugged and cried and tried to see what was going on through the static. One of them asked me if I was going to go back home. I said no. There was nothing I could do to help anyone. Everyone I held dear was safe. Safe and terrified as we all were, no matter where you were at the time.
My landlord had cable TV. All of us crowded into his bedroom for the next 4 days, rivited to the TV screen. Watching, again and again, people falling. People covered in ash. The planes hitting those buildings over and over. The enormous cloud that followed the 2nd Tower's destruction. I have always wished the media had paid more attention to Flight 93. Those people were heros. I pray everytime I board a plane, that should something happen, I'd be couragous enough to help do something about it.
On some weirdly odd level, it makes sense that if we were to be attacked, the Pentagon would be a likely target. And it was. Today, there is a memorial at the Pentagon with a sculpture that is hard to describe but does in fact capture the moment and the strength of our country.
As VISTAs, we wanted to do something. We had to do something. We thought starting a blood donation bank would be a great first step. There was no community support for our idea. Nothing like that will ever happen in bet you can't find it on a map Utah. I know ExxonMobil was concerned, because they had oil fields 50 miles away. No matter where you are, you cannot live in a cocoon.
I cannot get my brain around what it must have been like living in a war zone. Living so close to the Quantico Marine Base, and the Nation's Capital, I was used to seeing the big, ugly helicoptors , the convoys of military on the beltway, and watching the three helicoptors the President uses when he flies overhead. I cannot begin to imagine seeing surfact to air missles parked along the side of the beltway. I never imagined I would see armed military service people carrying AK-47's and using dogs as they patrtrolled the airport in Salt Lake City.
I have to hand it to President Bush during this horrible time in our history. When he stood on the mound of what was left of the World Trade Center with the Fire Chief and said we will find who did this, I was proud to be an American. When he addressed the country abou the attacks, I was proud to be an American.
In bet you can't find it on a map, Utah, everyone was talking about the attacks. Everyone was impacted by the horrible loss of that day. I worked for a 76 year old Morman cowboy, named Cleal Bradford. There is a love/hate relationship with Cleal amongst a lot of people, but I hold a special place in my heart for him. The main reason I hold him dear is what he did three days after the attack; the national day of mourning.
Cleal suggested Kelly and I go with him to a little known natural bridge formation, not far from the place we worked. We hiked for about 1/2 an hour, and there it was. Nothing dramatic like you would see
at Bridges National Park, but a natural bridge in the making. If you didn't know it was there, you would probably miss it. We sat on rocks or in the dirt, and Cleal suggested we each say something about how we feel about the tragedy of 9-11. I don't remember specifically what was said by Kelly or myself, however I do remember Cleal, at 76 years of age, dropping to his knees in the dirt, and praying. That moment, when it was just the three of us and the desert, was perfect. We cried. We sat in silence. We were together, each of us mourning and praying in our own way to whatever God we believed in.
I have always been a student of history. Since 9-11, I have read nearly everything I can get my hands on regarding the Taliban, Central Asia, the Middle East, and our own country's history and current actions with the region. I want to understand why 9-11 happened. I want to understand the cultures our country must understand before anything can become better, or whatever normal looks like. Americans cannot change the world in our image. A large portion of the world hates us. A decade after 9-11, I still don't understand why we are hated. As a VISTA, I worked with seperate tribes that have a history of hating each other. They don't kill each other anymore, unless there is alcohol involved.
When my friends husband finally was able to get out of DC, he was in shock. I called to check on them and he told me there should be a "test" to "prove" you are a good American. A test? I asked him. What sort of questions should be on this test? He answered you have to know American football teams and some other things of equal importance to being a "true" American. I told him I wouldn't pass the test because what do I know from football? Does that mean I'm a terrorist and not a true American? He couldn't answer that one, but he was obviously in shock about what he had experienced.
One of my firmest wishes is that we do not take for granted the fact that this country, our country, is made up of diversity. Jews, Catholics, Muslims, black, red, and brown. America cannot expect our system of democracy and open government to work in Central Asia, the Middle East, or Sweden for that matter. The root of the problem is lack of education and infrastructure, not working behind the scenes electing a "President" of a country which has never experienced democracy in generations or a lifetime.
As a VISTA, I was working with people with real issues. Individual people, or families. In my humble opinion, 9-11 opened our eyes to our vulnerablities. We are not vulnerable and I will not live in fear that I don't have enoug duct tape or canned goods to survive. If I do feel that way, the terrorists have won and will continue to win by breaking us down.
No one breaks America. God bless us all and God bless those who gave so much during that terrible time.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Becoming a Celestial Wife
I loved being a VISTA volunteer. Dumping my life and heading off into the sunset to begin a new chapter was an adventure of a lifetime. I'm a December baby, and we like to travel. My Grandfather once told me I was a rolling stone because I was always on the move. He also strongly suggested I run for Mayor. Running for Mayor as an Anglo woman, who was not Morman and sympathized with the Indians, was not a good idea. God bless him for suggesting it though. I loved that man.
Working as a VISTA meant you were on the ground, working with real people with real issues. I love getting my hands dirty. The White Mesa Ute program had been established for 25 years. In that time, hundreds of volunteers came to SE Utah to work. Some stayed and called SE Utah their home. I met some amazing people during my tour. All were unique.
Working at the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum enabled me to get involved in economic development. Economic development meant helping raise funding for the program, working with people in a position of decision making and meeting and working with Hopi, Zuni, Apache, White Mesa Ute and Navajo people. It also meant working with Mormans.
I have a soft spot in my heart for Mormans; with only one exception, every Morman I have met have been gracious and kind and welcoming. The exception however, came one night when I was invited to go to dinner in Cortez, 100 miles away, with a seemingly nice Morman man from Salt Lake City. The Museum was sponsoring a meeting regarding site stewardship and he had come down to Blanding for it.
Getting out of town was always a big deal as a VISTA. Offered FOOD and getting out of town was even better. He seemed like an interesting man, who was a Deacon in his Church, educated with a big State job. Family man, loads of children. I had accepted dinner in Cortez as a friendly opportunity to talk about site stewardship, Utah, whatever. He was closer to my age then any of the VISTAs. It is nice to talk to someone your own age ocassionally. I found out a lot on that 100 mile ride to Cortez. He had other ideas about why he invited me to dinner. I was stuck. No cell phone service. I'm in a car with someone who was a little too off the charts for me and we hadn't made it to Cortez yet.
The skies in Utah are clear and dark and that night, the stars were incredible. I suggested we stop the car and look at the stars. I needed to get out of that car for a bit. As we stood staring upwards, he moves in to kiss me. Holy Toledo Guacamole I was shocked. I pushed him away and reminded him of his wife and family back in Salt Lake, and he said it was ok, I could be his celestial wife. Celestial Wife.
What in the world was a celestial wife?? I asked him. You're a married man with a capital M as in Morman. Turns out a celestial wife is a woman a Morman man can "take" and, how do I put this delicately, use, for lack of a better word, without the benefits of marriage. And intercourse. All "good" Mormans have celestial wives. Brigham Young said so. Huh. Being a celestial wife was ok as long as there is no intercourse. I guess if you aren't technically fucking someone, the wife and kids are ok with it. Huh.
I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere with a man who thinks he's going to get lucky and find him a celestial wife. Not a chance in Hell. I played it cool and kept him talking while saying we need to get back to Blanding. I wanted out of that car. He insisted on buying me dinner in Cortez. I wanted out of that car. I decided if I could keep him talking I'd be ok and I wasn't in a position to start walking back to Blanding. We were 50 miles out of Blanding.
We went to Cortez, had a very uncomfortable dinner, I had two martini's out of spite becausehe was paying (Morman's don't drink) and we made it back to Blanding. I am no one's celestial wife.
I couldn't believe the utter gall of the guy. I still can't believe I got back safely. He was a Deacon after all, and I would think a dead body would impune his standing in the Church. There are a lot of places to hide a body though, in the desert. I shared my story and was told to keep it on the down-low. The guy was a somebody up in Salt Lake City and nothing really happened. I wasn't harmed in any way. My dignity was hurt but that was about it. I had to work with the guy but I was sure to do it from a distance.
Celestial Wife My Ass.
Working as a VISTA meant you were on the ground, working with real people with real issues. I love getting my hands dirty. The White Mesa Ute program had been established for 25 years. In that time, hundreds of volunteers came to SE Utah to work. Some stayed and called SE Utah their home. I met some amazing people during my tour. All were unique.
Working at the Edge of the Cedars State Park Museum enabled me to get involved in economic development. Economic development meant helping raise funding for the program, working with people in a position of decision making and meeting and working with Hopi, Zuni, Apache, White Mesa Ute and Navajo people. It also meant working with Mormans.
I have a soft spot in my heart for Mormans; with only one exception, every Morman I have met have been gracious and kind and welcoming. The exception however, came one night when I was invited to go to dinner in Cortez, 100 miles away, with a seemingly nice Morman man from Salt Lake City. The Museum was sponsoring a meeting regarding site stewardship and he had come down to Blanding for it.
Getting out of town was always a big deal as a VISTA. Offered FOOD and getting out of town was even better. He seemed like an interesting man, who was a Deacon in his Church, educated with a big State job. Family man, loads of children. I had accepted dinner in Cortez as a friendly opportunity to talk about site stewardship, Utah, whatever. He was closer to my age then any of the VISTAs. It is nice to talk to someone your own age ocassionally. I found out a lot on that 100 mile ride to Cortez. He had other ideas about why he invited me to dinner. I was stuck. No cell phone service. I'm in a car with someone who was a little too off the charts for me and we hadn't made it to Cortez yet.
The skies in Utah are clear and dark and that night, the stars were incredible. I suggested we stop the car and look at the stars. I needed to get out of that car for a bit. As we stood staring upwards, he moves in to kiss me. Holy Toledo Guacamole I was shocked. I pushed him away and reminded him of his wife and family back in Salt Lake, and he said it was ok, I could be his celestial wife. Celestial Wife.
What in the world was a celestial wife?? I asked him. You're a married man with a capital M as in Morman. Turns out a celestial wife is a woman a Morman man can "take" and, how do I put this delicately, use, for lack of a better word, without the benefits of marriage. And intercourse. All "good" Mormans have celestial wives. Brigham Young said so. Huh. Being a celestial wife was ok as long as there is no intercourse. I guess if you aren't technically fucking someone, the wife and kids are ok with it. Huh.
I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere with a man who thinks he's going to get lucky and find him a celestial wife. Not a chance in Hell. I played it cool and kept him talking while saying we need to get back to Blanding. I wanted out of that car. He insisted on buying me dinner in Cortez. I wanted out of that car. I decided if I could keep him talking I'd be ok and I wasn't in a position to start walking back to Blanding. We were 50 miles out of Blanding.
We went to Cortez, had a very uncomfortable dinner, I had two martini's out of spite becausehe was paying (Morman's don't drink) and we made it back to Blanding. I am no one's celestial wife.
I couldn't believe the utter gall of the guy. I still can't believe I got back safely. He was a Deacon after all, and I would think a dead body would impune his standing in the Church. There are a lot of places to hide a body though, in the desert. I shared my story and was told to keep it on the down-low. The guy was a somebody up in Salt Lake City and nothing really happened. I wasn't harmed in any way. My dignity was hurt but that was about it. I had to work with the guy but I was sure to do it from a distance.
Celestial Wife My Ass.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Moon On Top of the Mesa
Blanding was at least 2 miles from anything naturally beautiful, and as far as 100 miles from "civilization". Any trip out of town was to either go hiking or have a destination. I would go to Salt Lake City Airport to pick up my son-300+ miles one way. That's a day trip.
After picking him up and heading back to Blanding, its usually dark by the time we are outside of Moab. I mean really dark. When he came out for Thanksgiving, we were heading home and he says Mom, are those cell towers? I looked at what he was looking at, and no, they weren't cell towers. It was the constellation Orion, so bright and big. He thought Orion's belt were cell towers. Nope, I anwered him, that's what we call a constellation. That began a great conversation about stars and spirits and kept us going the last 100+ miles home.
One sunny Saturday, and they were all sunny in the middle of the desert, I decided to take a road trip to the dirt mall in Monument Valley. It was just me and Kia in my little Celica. The space between Blanding and the Valley is massive, and for the most part, deserted.
I headed to the Valley, passing through White Mesa and Bluff. After Bluff, its a whole bunch of nothing for miles and miles. The next town is Mexican Hat on the San Juan River and has a cool little restaurant/motel. The last motel until Gouldings in the Valley. Mexican Hat is so named for a rock formation. A red rock pinacle, with a huge boulder in the shape of a hat balanced on top. I heard no one would climb it becuase no one wanted to disrupt the balance. Good idea. Crossing the San Juan River, you are officially on Reservation land.
My little car was having trouble climbing up and down mesas, and I was starting to freak a little about whether she'd make it or not. There really is a middle of nowhere, and we were in the middle of it. We keep going, and there, at the top of a mesa, is the largest full moon during the day that I have ever soon.
I stopped freaking out and started giving thanks for such an amazing sight. The moon was sitting on top of a mesa. It was so bright I imagined I could see craters. There are moments like that, always natural moments, that take my breath away. This was one of them.
My angst over my car's engine gone, we kept heading to the Valley. How do I describe Monument Valley? It is vast. The Valley has rock formations called the Mittens, that everyone has seen in any John Wayne western. I've seen the Mittens spotted with snow. I watched the Olympic Torch run through the Valley from the Visitor's Center. We were some of the only white faces in the crowd. There was a boy dressed in full on yellow feathers because he was going to dance. I asked him if I could take his picture. He wanted $5.00 which I didn't have, but I did give him $2.00 for the photo. You always need to ask before just pointing and shooting your camera.
I have flown in a hot air balloon over Valley of the Gods in the Valley and been to the top of Moki Dugway where the entire landscape is empty, except for the house at the bottom, that is a B&B. I have ridden on horseback into the backcountry with an Indian guide and have seen rock art in places you would never see unless you were on foot or the back of a horse.
This trip, I was headed for the dirt mall. The dirt mall is near the intersection of Arizona and Utah. The dirt mall is essentially a series of shacks with dirt floors. Artists sell their work to tourists there. Walk into any given shack and you'll be hit with the smell of weed. Start a conversation with some, and you can learn some interesting things. I have a lot of satisfaction knowing that most, if not all of my jewelry comes from an artist that I know, or know of. The artist is always willing to talk about their art and I am always asking questions.
This journey through my VISTA experience is a great execise in memories. I hope you are enjoying it as well.
Thanks for reading!
After picking him up and heading back to Blanding, its usually dark by the time we are outside of Moab. I mean really dark. When he came out for Thanksgiving, we were heading home and he says Mom, are those cell towers? I looked at what he was looking at, and no, they weren't cell towers. It was the constellation Orion, so bright and big. He thought Orion's belt were cell towers. Nope, I anwered him, that's what we call a constellation. That began a great conversation about stars and spirits and kept us going the last 100+ miles home.
One sunny Saturday, and they were all sunny in the middle of the desert, I decided to take a road trip to the dirt mall in Monument Valley. It was just me and Kia in my little Celica. The space between Blanding and the Valley is massive, and for the most part, deserted.
I headed to the Valley, passing through White Mesa and Bluff. After Bluff, its a whole bunch of nothing for miles and miles. The next town is Mexican Hat on the San Juan River and has a cool little restaurant/motel. The last motel until Gouldings in the Valley. Mexican Hat is so named for a rock formation. A red rock pinacle, with a huge boulder in the shape of a hat balanced on top. I heard no one would climb it becuase no one wanted to disrupt the balance. Good idea. Crossing the San Juan River, you are officially on Reservation land.
My little car was having trouble climbing up and down mesas, and I was starting to freak a little about whether she'd make it or not. There really is a middle of nowhere, and we were in the middle of it. We keep going, and there, at the top of a mesa, is the largest full moon during the day that I have ever soon.
I stopped freaking out and started giving thanks for such an amazing sight. The moon was sitting on top of a mesa. It was so bright I imagined I could see craters. There are moments like that, always natural moments, that take my breath away. This was one of them.
My angst over my car's engine gone, we kept heading to the Valley. How do I describe Monument Valley? It is vast. The Valley has rock formations called the Mittens, that everyone has seen in any John Wayne western. I've seen the Mittens spotted with snow. I watched the Olympic Torch run through the Valley from the Visitor's Center. We were some of the only white faces in the crowd. There was a boy dressed in full on yellow feathers because he was going to dance. I asked him if I could take his picture. He wanted $5.00 which I didn't have, but I did give him $2.00 for the photo. You always need to ask before just pointing and shooting your camera.
I have flown in a hot air balloon over Valley of the Gods in the Valley and been to the top of Moki Dugway where the entire landscape is empty, except for the house at the bottom, that is a B&B. I have ridden on horseback into the backcountry with an Indian guide and have seen rock art in places you would never see unless you were on foot or the back of a horse.
This trip, I was headed for the dirt mall. The dirt mall is near the intersection of Arizona and Utah. The dirt mall is essentially a series of shacks with dirt floors. Artists sell their work to tourists there. Walk into any given shack and you'll be hit with the smell of weed. Start a conversation with some, and you can learn some interesting things. I have a lot of satisfaction knowing that most, if not all of my jewelry comes from an artist that I know, or know of. The artist is always willing to talk about their art and I am always asking questions.
This journey through my VISTA experience is a great execise in memories. I hope you are enjoying it as well.
Thanks for reading!
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