Resolutions and predictions

My husband asked me yesterday what my favorite New Year's eve memory was.  I had to think for a bit, because when you are married to a musician, chances are you will spend many New Year's eves at home alone.  Don't feel sorry for me, though, because I like to go to bed early.

We decided there was a tie.  There was the party hosted by Bill and Diane Huffman, in Princeton, West Virginia.  It had to be in the early 1990s.  It was the last time I ever drank whiskey or ate anything with rosemary in it.  I had baked two loaves of rosemary bread, which I took to the party, and which I ended up being very sick on.  And the other memorable New Year's eve, was the 'Jamaican' New Year's eve party at my sister and brother-in-law's house.  We ate jerk chicken, sat in the hot tub, and my brother-in-law set off a quarter-stick of dynamite precisely at midnight.  It was pretty unforgettable.

Another New Year's eve activity that I can remember is a tradition we used to have in which we'd sit around the table on New Year's eve (or day), grab a sheet of paper and write down three predictions for each member of the family, and for ourselves.  It was highly confidential.  We didn't dare discuss our predictions and they were sealed in a manilla envelope and stored in the filing cabinet until the next New Year.  We'd get them out, and read them out loud, and see if our predictions rang true.  One year, I predicted Randy and Krystal would climb Grandeur Peak in Salt Lake City, and they did.  I think I predicted Krystal would read a book when she was 11 or 12.  And I think she did.

When Sofie was a couple of years old, I remember writing a prediction for her.  That she would walk that year.  The next year when we opened it I was heartsick to see what I had written.  She still wasn't walking.  She didn't walk that year, or even the next, or the next.  She is only now walking better than she ever has.

We abandoned the prediction tradition and I am careful to predict or resolve anything anymore.  In 2012, I am 'supposed' to graduate from nursing school.  That is, if nothing weird happens.  For example, I could accidentally cut off some of my fingers chopping onions or develop a severe allergic reaction to alcohol prep pads.  Lord knows, you couldn't be a nurse and be allergic to alcohol prep pads.  And trust me, I've considered these possibilities because I know that...anything can happen.  I mean, what are the odds that we would finally have a baby, and the doctor would nearly cost her her life trying to deliver her?  What are the odds that the 12-hour surgery they performed to replace the portion of her skull they took out to relieve the bleeding in her brain would just...disintegrate a few months later?  Or that at one year of age, she would develop an abscess in her brain, and actually survive it?  What are the odds you would take one of the doctors who is so obviously at fault to court, and lose?  Or that you'd be in Park City celebrating the sale of your home and a bite of hummus caused an allergic reaction and she nearly stopped breathing.  Or the time we were visiting family in Illinois and she mysteriously went into respiratory distress and had to be airlifted to a children's hospital in St. Louis?

So I am cautious to predict anything.  Nowadays, when a doctor or other health care professional tries to reassure me about the odds of anything adverse happening, I laugh inside.  But I also believe those odds can work in our favor, and they have.  She lived.  A second team of doctors later fixed her skull.  She smiles a lot and sometimes she even laughs.  She helps me stir pancake batter and grind pepper.  And she knows we love her.

I think about those crazy weird odds and try to approach every day as if a miracle can happen, because it often does.

 Sofie and Grandma Budd after her second surgery.

Cappuccinos and Christmas

I haven't posted for a few days.  Since I am the boss of my blog, I decided to give myself Christmas day off.  The next day seemed like a good day to take off, and the next one, too.

We had a good visit at my mom and stepdad's house in Altona.  I just finished unpacking all of our stuff last night.  We actually stayed for two nights, which is 100% more than usual.  About two hours into the trip, I think Sofie started to realize where we were heading.  She smiled as we pulled into the driveway (at 4:30 p.m.) and seemed happy to be there.  I have never seen more homemade cookies at one time.  They were in the dining room, in the kitchen, and spilling out onto cookie trays on the back porch.  I don't know how many hours my mom spent baking cookies, but she made gobs of thumbprints, and we didn't even threaten to run out.  She made those chocolate kiss cookies, but I tend to avoid those, because once you eat the kiss, the rest of the cookie is just so-so, plus I tend to injure the roof of my mouth on the pointy part of the kiss.  Although she solved that somewhat this year, by smearing the chocolate kiss around on the cookie while it's still warm.  It's not as beautiful, but much more ergonomic.

We had our oyster stew, and even my 5-year old nephew ate it, which I find pretty amazing.  We taught one of my older nephews how to open a champagne bottle properly, so he could impress the ladies in a few years.  And my mom, my sister Jeanie, and I played a memory game with my niece Emily, who is nine.  The game involves turning over any two cards spread out over an entire table filled with cards (!)  trying to remember where the cards are that match.  And guess what?  Nine year olds put their moms and grandmothers to shame.  Either that, or wine is really bad for the memory.

The next day, we received a call from Emily that 'Santa had been to their house, and they would be eating breakfast in 30 minutes'.  We jumped in the car and headed the 1.5 miles or so into Altona.  My sister wowed me with coffee already poured in mugs made by my old pottery teacher in Salt Lake City (I had forgotten about those).  And she had made her first-ever breakfast casserole...which was really good.

After the presents were opened and things had calmed down a little, we jumped in the Jeep and went to the convenience store in Altona, which was open on Christmas.  I don't know if 5-year-olds and 9-year-olds should be drinking cappuccinos, but we always let them have one.  And then we usually drive around town drinking our coffee and they quiz me to see if I can remember who lives in which house.  Another memory game at which I fail miserably.

This picture is one of my favorite scenes ever.  Matthew, Emily and Sofie in the backseat, fresh from our coffee run.

The saying 'it is better to give than to receive' definitely holds true.  Because later on Christmas Day, my mom and I decided it would be nice to 'give' my sister the gift of trying to organize the upstairs bedrooms of her house.  By the look on her face when we arrived back at her house I am not so sure she was so thrilled about receiving our gift, but it felt good to give and help her organize all those toys and burn off some of those thumbprint cookies.

And if I had a quarter for every time I heard 'you better not put that on your blog, Loretta', well then I'd have a lot of quarters to buy cappuccinos at the Altona convenience store.

The Miss Railroad Days Pageant and my near miss...

Traveling home for the holidays (or any reason for that matter) means driving through Peoria, Illinois and it reminds me of a confession that I need to make.  But before I can do that, I must start where it all began, which was the Miss Railroad Days Pageant about 47 miles from Peoria, in Galesburg, Illinois.

There was a little arm-twisting to get me to enter the Miss Railroad Days Pageant.  I definitely didn’t consider myself to be pageant material, but before I knew it, rehearsals were underway and there was no turning back.  I think it was 1985.  I did fairly well, and finished as the first runner-up.  Honestly, it was a relief for it all to be over.  I fulfilled my duty and life could go on.  But when I stood there on that stage that night, in the middle of Sandburg Mall, surrounded by a few folding chairs containing family members and boyfriends, I guess I didn’t realize the great responsibilities bestowed on a first runner-up.  That, in the event of a natural disaster, in which the queen couldn’t fulfill her responsibilities, then I would be Miss Railroad Days.

A few months later, the phone rang and it was the pageant people and there apparently was a natural disaster.  The queen was pregnant.  I was being promoted to Miss Railroad Days.  I thought it through for a second.  No big deal.  I would make an appearance at the next festival, shake some hands and it will all be fine.  But then they dropped the bombshell.  I would have to compete in the Miss Heart of Illinois pageant in Peoria.

As stressful as Miss Railroad Days was for me, Miss Heart of Illinois was worse.  Peoria was a much bigger city than Galesburg, and things here were definitely different.  One contestant sang opera and actually had a voice coach.  Some of them had stylists teaching them how to do their hair.  Many of them had several sequined evening gowns to choose from and the pageant people helped advise them about what might look best on stage.  I had the same dress I wore in Galesburg.  I was feeling a little overwhelmed.

We were instructed to brush up on current events for the interview portion, and I did.  I was feeling fairly confident on pageant day, and figured I would at least do well on the interview.  I mean, I was studying journalism after all.  And all went well until they asked me that innocent final question.  What journalist would I most like to be like?

I paused for a moment, and then answered, “Jessica Savitch”.

There was uncomfortable silence that followed.  A couple of the judges looked up from their papers at me, over the top of their bifocals, and just stared.  I couldn’t be sure where the question came from but I believe I heard, “Why?”  I think I answered that she broke ground for women in journalism.  And she did.  But she was also dead.  She died tragically when her car skidded and became airborne and landed in a canal in 1983.  And I think in studying for my current events questions, I must have missed that a few months before her death, was reported to be ‘high’ on NBC network news and had practically suffered a nervous breakdown live on the air.  Not to mention her reported cocaine problem.

I didn’t get first runner-up in the pageant, or even second or third.  And maybe it wasn’t even the interview that did me in, but the rhythmic gymnastics.

Oyster Stew

I'm making soup tonight for dinner.  Trying to use up the rest of a roast I made two nights ago.  I hate to waste food--it's so expensive, and we are getting ready to go home to spend a day or two with my family in Altona, Illinois, so if we don't use it tonight, it won't be any good.

My step-dad will be making oyster soup tomorrow.  It's a family tradition that must go back on his side.  Don't tell anyone but I think the recipe comes from the back of the can of oysters.  They eat at 5:00 p.m. and I am already back-timing the day to make sure we are not late.  If we can get there by 4:00, we should be good.  Which means we would need to leave at 12:00, which really means we should leave at 11:00 because we are always running late, it seems.  I am 45 years old, yet we all know when we go home we are 16 again, and late again.

We wouldn't want to miss the soup, or the traditions that follow.  My nephews usually arm wrestle me, and then Randy.  We still wrestle around on the floor some.  We'll drink a little something, and likely gather around the TV and watch an old Western most of us have seen before.  We will get really hot from the wrestling, and the drinking, and all of the bodies piled in the living room together, and it will feel good to go to the back porch or even outside to look at the stars.

On a clear night, the stars are bright in that part of the country.

No, we don't want to be late for any of it, because one never knows how many Christmases we will have together.  And I will finally ask the others if they chew the oysters or swallow them whole.

Canyon Rim

When I sat in Mr. Vittone's geography class in the 7th grade, and we were honed in on the Great Salt Lake, I distinctly remember thinking to myself...that's all very interesting but I bet I never see that.

I hadn't seen all that much at that point.  In the 5th grade, I did get to spend most of the summer with my aunt in California.  Other than that, we would go to Iowa sometimes.  I think we almost made it to the Indiana border when we visited my mom's cousin in Streator, Illinois.  There were places in Illinois that made me think I was in a foreign country or faraway place, like Bishop Hill and Starved Rock.  So, in 1999 I was up for a promotion at Pfizer, and the position would be for an opening in San Francisco or Salt Lake City.  It was our choice.   My gut reaction to Salt Lake City was no.  But the practical side of me (the side that would be perfectly okay with getting a laminator for Christmas but my husband refuses to buy me one) knew how horrible housing prices were in the Bay, and we would have to live in the territory.  The sales manager encouraged me to fly out to Salt Lake City and check it out, and then decide.

It was beautiful.  There were mountains in every direction, and it was breathtaking.  I interviewed, learned a little about the area, talked it over with Randy and took the position, and soon our house was being packed up for the move.  I found a realtor, who was a transplant.  One of those skiiers who decided to stay.  He was single, a long string of ex-girlfriends, and on one day when he decided not to shave, I envisioned he may have been a bit of a drinker.  Maybe his lack of shaving that day was his way of telling me he was really tired of showing me houses.  I just hadn't seen anything that I liked that we could afford.  Housing there was significantly more than we were used to.  Finally, we pulled up to a house in an area known as 'Canyon Rim'.  It had no curb appeal, had a mish-mash of sculptures in the yard among overgrown grass, one was a big brown glob of ceramic that a neighbor would later describe as 'looking like a dinosaur crapped in the yard' (direct quote).  It was the end of the day, and I told him I just didn't think so.  He said he felt obligated to at least go in and make an appearance as he told them we would be by.  I stayed in the car.  He came out and said, "I think you are going to want to see this."

The house was as charming as it could be.  An artist definitely lived inside.  The owner had lived there for 30 years and came from Germany.  She taught knitting and crocheting, and had a room full of beautiful yarn and sweaters.  She had built an addition that had an amazing view of Mount Olympus.  There was a cherry tree, a raspberry bush, a grapevine, and a peach tree.  She composted.  She had fashioned a sun shade on the back deck that was shaped like a sail, that could be moved as the sun changed positions.  The garage was too small for a car, but housed her bike, a drill press, cross country skis, and small tools on the wall, which she had outlined with a pencil to be sure they made it back into the right place.

We said yes to the house, and our house in Morgantown was packed up.  In the midst of this big move, was a phone call from Krystal's---hmmm, can't quite think of the word.  Babysitter?  She asked if Krystal could come out for awhile, as they were having a lot of problems.  Randy and I had been in and out of court and lawyers' offices for some time trying to get custody of both of my nieces, Krystal and Katlyn.  I remember him saying to me, she can come out, but if she does, she's not going back.

The moving truck arrived right around the same time Krystal did.  She was such a hard worker, it was probably her way of showing her love and feeling needed and appreciated.  We loved her regardless.  We painted every room on the inside.  We painted the outside dark brown (darker than dinosaur crap) while listening to Destiny's Child on the boombox.  We had wonderful folks next door who became great friends.  We went to court, and the best judge on the planet who happened to be in Utah finally listened to the three of us, and said Krystal could stay. We learned about becoming parents, Mormonism, and that Great Salt Lake. 

Oh, and the former owner of the house, who was probably somewhere in her 60s...took off on her bike.  She rode it from Salt Lake City to somewhere in Maine.

The Volvo

I ran into the 'loft lady' the other day while shopping.  She actually recognized Sofie first, then me.  We hugged like we were old friends, exchanged some small talk, and then moved on.  I wondered what she could possibly be buying.  She is the most minimal of minimalists.  There were like 12 things in her loft.  I always wondered what her housekeeper actually did when she cleaned.  There was a couch, a chair, and a desk with almost nothing on it.  She had great taste, and some beautiful paintings on the wall.  Not many, but they were well-placed and original.  She also drove a beautiful, new, convertible Volvo.  The roof was totally motorized, and she was really proud of it.  It was pretty impressive.  My parents were visiting once, and we were all down in the parking garage (which was pretty tough to maneuver through due to all the concrete support beams) and I asked her if she would show my parents how the top lifted off.  She gladly obliged.

It was some time later that we happened to be walking out of our apartments at exactly the same time, and we started talking and she asked me if I had any other children (besides Sofie and Krystal).   I told her no, we had infertility problems, and we were lucky to even have had Sofie.  She then said, "Well, God answered your prayers.  You wanted a baby badly, and now you will always be caring for a baby."

There are comments people will make to you that hurt, yet you can still somehow manage a response or at least clarify what it is they meant.  And there are those comments that make your breath stop, your heart pause, and your left ventricle fill to the point of exploding, before your aorta starts pumping blood again, and it appears you will, in fact, survive.  I didn't say a thing, couldn't say a thing.

A few weeks later I noticed she was driving a rental car.  When I saw her in the parking garage, I asked her what happened to her Volvo.  It was in the shop, she explained, because she had scraped it up against one of the beams while trying to park.

I was pretty okay with it.

Memorable Christmas gifts...

A hardware store might be the one place where I might walk out with just one thing.  You need a certain-size bolt, and you walk out with said certain-size bolt.  Maybe your purchase totals 30 cents.  You feel so disciplined.  But there was a hardware store in Galva, Illinois (it may still be there) we used to go to when we were young that was more department store than hardware store, at least in my mind. One year, when my sister and I were rather young, we somehow had scraped up a few dollars to buy mom a Christmas gift, and we had to buy something there because that's where mom needed to go and it was just a couple of days from Christmas.  We were much too small to drive, and the planets had to line up properly for us to get to go to Galesburg.   It was a pretty big deal that we had enough money to actually buy her something, so we had to make this gift count.  We looked and looked and finally chose a beautiful dish and it amazingly fit our budget.  We had never seen anything like it.  It had a metal base and the dish was elevated quite high above the base.  It had these cute little cupids on it with arrows.  We both agreed that this was the perfect elegant gift for our mom, probably better than anything we could have found in Galesburg anyway.  We took it up to the counter, and paid for it.  The cashier wrapped it up and told us both, "What a beautiful soap dish.  Your mom will really love it."  I was speechless, and remember thinking--soap dish?  What is a soap dish?  We bought mom a soap dish?  So that means it's going to have to be in the bathroom?  We wanted it to command the center of attention for all to admire, and were a little devastated to hear it was going to have to be in the bathroom.  I don't think we realized we realized we possibly could have exchanged it.  Funny, but it might be the only gift I can remember giving our mom.


One of the best Christmas gifts I ever received were watercolor lessons from Jill Pritchett, an artist in Bluefield, Virginia.  I was working in television news at the time, and feeling somewhat overwhelmed with work and keeping up the house (which is laughable now), and my husband hinted to me something about how great it would be for me to take watercolor lessons.  At that moment, I think I was picking up clothes off the floor and irritated, and I remembered saying...you better not have bought me watercolor lessons for Christmas!  I don't have time for that!     Sure enough he did.  I went to my first class and was hooked.  She was an immensely talented artist and such an interesting person.  After a few weeks, she warned us we wouldn't have class for a bit as she was taking a trip and was going to hike Mt. Kilimanjaro.  She didn't make the summit but she fell in love.  She came back from the trip and started a beautiful landscape of the mountain and their tents glowing in the night.  She explained that she had fallen in love with a guy from Pennsylvania who happened to be on the trip, and her painting showed it.  Eventually she closed her shop and moved to Pennsylvania to marry him.  I have some jewelry that she made and a watercolor of Muir Woods and they are treasures to me.  I always figured it had to be love because she got terrible diarrhea from the meat they carried up the mountain.  It wasn't refrigerated, and at meal times, the guides would shave off the outside of the meat and cut off an inner portion for cooking.  She was sicker than she'd ever been, humiliated from gastrointestinal issues, and yet, in love.  My fellow painters and I were all a little heartbroken about losing our teacher, but so glad for her happiness.

I guess it was a little before Christmas 2007 when we were at a mall in Tucson, and I dropped a hint about the Fiesta Bowl in Phoenix. This time, it was my husband who made that sort of comment---you better not have bought tickets to the Fiesta Bowl because I don't want to go.  I didn't say anything, but of course I did.  How could I not?  He used to teach at WVU and they were going to be two hours away in Phoenix?  Slowly he came around to the idea.  We were all pretty angry that West Virginia's coach had left, and it definitely affected our enthusiasm about the game.  It all changed when we got there.  Anyone dressed in blue and gold was an instant friend, and it was a gigantic party in the mild desert air.  The Oklahoma fans were some of the most polite fans we had ever seen and apologized in advance for the beating they figured we would take.  We were surprised to win and had a great time.

December 19, 2011

I have been lying in bed since the early part of November.  On Saturday, I began to feel like I might go crazy.  Instead I decided to go to Walgreen's.  It provided a much-needed break at exactly the right moment.  I am perfectly well, the problem is that our little Sofie has been sick with pneumonia and mono.  She had been sleeping approximately 21 hours a day, and most of those hours wants me lying next to her.  As tired as she is, she is a very light sleeper.  I am convinced someone must have slipped a pea under our princess' mattress.  I keep meaning to check.  Lying here has made me wonder how people on bed rest manage to withstand it, unless they are gravely ill.

She is sleeping a little less now, so I feel like there is some light at the end of the tunnel, and I am glad for that.  Every time she is seriously ill, I wonder and worry if this is it for her.  Her body is weak, but also very strong.  One day, I'll write more about her journey.  In the meantime, I thought I would just start writing.