Does the Heart Mend?

It's 10:00 pm on May 7th. It's been three years since the call. I still call it "the call" and feel silly about it - it's so dramatic and I don't really care for drama - but I don't know how else to name that moment when I learned your ship had been lost.



The scrapbook with the articles about the crew of Flying Colours sits to my left with the vigil flier on the cover. It's been haunting me all week and I still haven't opened it. What's the point? I've memorized the catch phrases that litter the various articles and there's still no answer as to what happened to you. Maybe that's why three years later I still can't say your name without crying.

I was thinking about when we met yesterday. I was talking to my little sister about Phillip's Park, where Outdoor School was held in sixth grade. We had different teachers and different recesses, but ended up in the same group. We spent a week together learning how to use compasses, purify water, identify plants and animals. You were already well ahead of me, and most of the boys, in survival skills and we hit it off.

The first time I came over to your house I was greeted by two yellow labs, one of whom is still with us and was of great comfort at the vigil. Funny how your dog colors my memories of high school as much as my own. One of my favorite memories is watching you paddle the canoe around the Lake with Buster sitting at the opposite end. I don't have a picture of that. I wish I did.

There are still moments when I want to call you. Today as I left my office for lunch I almost walked over a squirrel. I laughed like I always do when a squirrel catches me off guard and thought of you. Remember that summer squirrels kept attacking you? You told me squirrels are not to be trusted. I haven't forgotten.

Someday I hope to have closure. I want to remember you, not you marred by tragedy. It's you I miss. We're all growing up and it hurts that you are not with us figuring out life. The last pictures of us together are from Bobby's high school graduation in 2005. (He had the biggest crush on you, by the way, but who didn't, right?) I keep trying to force KodakGallery to show you in other albums, but it only relents by giving me a picture of you in a picture.

So, I'll light another candle in memory of you, toss back a shot of Bahama rum in your honor, and have a good cry. Know that you are still loved and so, so missed.

A Salute to the Silent Ranks

Today is Military Spouse Appreciation Day.  I do not know firsthand what it is to be married to the military. I know what it is to be a daughter of a soldier, a cousin to the Navy, granddaughter to a retired Airman, and sister to a Marine. I don't know that I could do what is often described as the toughest job in the military.

Through my various connections I have had the honor of meeting those known as the Silent Ranks - the wives left behind to man the home front. I have yet to meet one who didn't inspire me with their strength and wisdom. Their lives are interrupted, plans change at the drop of a hat, but they adjust and persevere. 

Below is one of my favorite poems. It is similar to one my parents have  hanging on our "military wall" at home. It is my tribute to all those married to the military. I admire you. 

The Silent Ranks

Author Unknown

I wear no uniforms, no blues or army greens
But I am in the Army in the ranks rarely seen
I have no rank upon my shoulders - salutes I do not give
But the military world is the place where I live
I'm not in the chain of command, orders I do not get
But my husband is the one who does, this I can not forget
I'm not the one who fires the weapon, who puts my life on the line
But my job is just as tough. I'm the one that's left behind
My husband is a patriot, a brave and prideful man
And the call to serve his country not all can understand
Behind the lines I see the things needed to keep this country free
My husband makes the sacrifice, but so do our kids and me
I love the man I married, Soldiering is his life
But I stand among the silent ranks known as the Army Wife.

So today I send a shout out to you who have so inspired me to take life one step at a time, breath, and laugh:  

Karie, who has loved and lost so much. Nikki, who makes me laugh every day and reminds me not to take life so seriously. Becca, who makes classy military-inspired decor. Megan, who is transitioning from an active military life to a retired military life and shares her story. Wife of a Wounded Soldier, who gives insight to the struggles our wounded soldiers face upon coming home, while staying positive and helping others in the same position. And Charity, whose blog I have just recently started reading, but is an amazing wife and mother of three.

You all are so amazing and I feel so blessed to have come across your blogs. Thank you for sharing your stories.

Wearing a yellow ribbon until they all come home.

Birds of Wisdom

I'm not sure what started my fascination with owls. Maybe it was when we cleaned out my great-grandma's apartment and found her decorative owls. Or maybe it was that single owl ornament that decided our style. Whatever the catalyst, I love all things owl.

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't have owl figurines or pictures all over my house. Most of the owl tokens I have are delegated to our Christmas decorations. Including this year's Christmas present from our landlords: a red throw blanket with an owl tie. Ironic did not even begin to describe it. My husband's response, who does not share the love of owls, was, "That's not even funny." (The landlord does not know I like owls.)

I recently learned Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom whom I am named for, had a companion owl. Fitting, I think. I told the DH this alone should justify my fascination with owls. It is also why I am very excited about The Pretty Pauper's 5-0 giveaway of this little gem. I would love to sport that necklace and see the DH roll his eyes in amusement.

Horsing Around

"The love of a horse is the same as the love of a human being. If you've never loved a horse you would never understand." ~ Unknown

(Quote lifted from my Dad's Facebook)

There are few things the DH and I want more than a quiet place in the country. We both grew up in small towns surrounded by farmland and mountains. We're in a suburb now, but are constantly making plans for the future. 

For the last few years we've watched Dad train his paint, Scout (pictured above), who he bought at the church auction when Scout was 10 months old. He didn't really know anything about training a horse as most of the horses we've had were already broke. He called his brother-in-law and was introduced to the Down Under Horsemanship method. After a lot of sweat, tears, and patience, a clinic with Clinton Anderson, and countless Walkabout Tours, he now has the best horse I've ever seen.

The DH and I have had the opportunity to attend a few tours with Dad (two for me, one for Jason and both of us went to the clinic Dad was part of). After the Walkabout Tour in Redmond last weekend, we were once again bit by the horse bug. Only this time, the DH decided to do something about it...

(Pictured, me desensitizing Pearl - 3-yr-old quarter horse palomino mare - to a tarp that had been flying around spooking her. Please note, this is not step one of desensitizing. There was an hour of desensitizing around her and on her less sensitive spots before I went anywhere near her face.)

We are now mucking stalls at a horse barn once a week in exchange for a chance to do some ground work with a couple of the horses. We've had the Method pounded into our brains, now we have a chance to put our head knowledge to work. 

We realized at the end of day one on Saturday we have a lot yet to learn. We called Dad and got some pointers from him on things we were having trouble with. Sunday, the day the picture above was taken, went much better and we're looking forward to working with her again this evening. Once our technique is honed we will split off and groundwork separate horses. 

If nothing else, we have patience in droves and Clinton Andersonisms to get us through.

Lost for Words

"Words can never fully say what we want them to say, for they fumble, stammer, and break the best porcelain. The best one can hope for is to find along the way someone to share the path, content to walk in silence, for the heart communes best when it does not try to speak."
~Margaret Weis

Words have never been my thing. Writing was, but I have lost that skill as of late. I miss it. My super power, however, is feeling things (too) deeply. I feel others' pains as if they were my own and my heart aches with them. Physically.

Frustratingly, I feel their pain, but I have no words to give them comfort. I wish I did. It feels really unhelpful to just cry. I pray that it's enough.

Parenting Practice

The DH and I have been having on and off conversations about our approaches to discipline and parenting methods in general as of late. Even though we don't plan to have little people any sooner than two years from now, it's fun to talk through things that may come up in the future now, while we don't have a screaming child to deal with. I know you can't truly prepare to be a parent - every child is different and you could very well find you're different than you thought you were - but I think having a plan and revising it is better than having no plan at all.

Lucky for us, we have a 3-year-old our friend's let us practice on. (He's everyone's first child as he's currently the only child in the group.) The DH and him have a grand time together - most of it spent trying to get the boy to eat as he's very easily distracted. Last night we had the pleasure of watching him while his parents had a date night and this is what dinner looked like...

PS: DH made the kid's dinner, so his mac and cheese was edible. ;-)

Blue Box Blues

Last night I decided to throw in the towel and admit defeat.

I can make a meatloaf that would put your grandma to shame.
I can whip up the creamiest, fluffiest, most delicious mashed potatoes you've ever had at the drop of a hat without the aid of a cookbook or measuring tools.
I can clean trout and cook it five different ways - none of them dry or burnt.
I make a mouth watering brisket and mean eggs.

But, try as I might, the blue box defeats me every damn time.

The powder doesn't mix. It's too buttery. The noodles are too hard or too mushy. The sauce is creamy, but bland. Every time my confidants ask, "How do you ruin mac and cheese? That's like burning water!" or comment on how amazing my mashed potatoes are and how puzzling it is I can't make edible Blue Box. The Boy's constant line is, "Did you follow the directions?" (For awhile I was known to throw all the ingredients in the pot and wish it well. It never turned out well.)

It hasn't always been this way. When my mother left I became the chief chef of the house. And, really, there aren't too many recipes a nine-year-old can follow, so we ate a lot of mac and cheese, Hamburger Helper, and Red Baron 4-cheese pizza.

I hereby renounce my claim on my childhood favorite and will leave the Pasta tipo Macaroni con salsa de Queso to the DH (pictured making Blue Box on our honeymoon in Puerto Vallarta).