Abigail Carter's Blog, page 3

The Firehouse Chronicles – Episode 5

This post is the 5th in a series of posts I have dubbed “The Firehouse Chronicles.” See all episodes.

Bird’s eye view of Rainier Beach, 1895. Courtesy of Seattle Municipal Archives.

Flung into needing a fast decision about buying this firehouse, we discuss our future commitment in a way that feels like a spur-of-the-moment Vegas wedding. I am both giddy and terrified. It feels impulsive and dangerous and financially risky and exciting to be buying a house with Jim.

That night, we discuss issues that most married couples take years to figure out: what happens to the house if one of us dies, each of our responsibilities toward the house, what happens if he is unable to repay me for his half, what happens if we break up. I become aware through this conversation that Jim has already proven his commitment to me in so many ways – his determination to make my house his own, as flawed a situation as that was for him; the care he took to fold himself into the complex and intertwined relationship I have with my kids in his quiet and unobtrusive way; his unflinching support of me and his acceptance of the ever-present ghost in the room. It was my turn to show my commitment to him. By stepping fully into this endeavor, I would be showing him my intention of spending my life with him.

Still, it’s scary given our angsty adjustment moving Jim into my house. Are we ready to make this leap together?

Yet it does feel right to be buying a house that so ideally represents the two of us. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past 15 years, when things happen quickly and easily, it’s usually the right path.

But still. I am terrified. Will this new house resolve his home needs? Will it suit mine? I have spent 15 years making all the decisions in my world. Will I have trouble accepting the fact that I will now have to share these decisions and, heaven forbid, make compromises? Will I have to sell my dream house? The thought still causes me to swallow back tears. I love the house so much. Everyone who walks in the door loves it too. I bought the house 4 years after Arron’s death when the kids were 6 and 10. For both of them, this house is the only one they know. I wanted a home that would console us while at the same time offer us a new life, one without Arron. The house became all that and more.

Which is why I know the kids will be devastated at the idea of selling our home. But the truth is, financially I am barely holding on. Property taxes are rising substantially every year and I don’t have a reliable income. From a financial perspective, selling my house is the only option if we buy the firehouse, but I still hope, in the back of my mind, that perhaps I’ll be able to rent it, hold onto it as an investment.

The other issue is that the firehouse has no real bedrooms. Given that the sellers owned the house since 1974, and there is no obvious bedroom, it’s a mystery to us where they actually slept. We grapple with how to create bedrooms from the partially renovated rooms: A hayloft with a stair to the attic plunked in its center; a horse’s feed room and stables with grooved cement floors and giant barn doors that open directly to the backyard; an attic space that will require a new stairway to provide access. Persuading the kids to move to an incomplete house will be a challenge without the carrot of beautiful/cool bedrooms.

The neighborhood is also a mental hurdle. Am I willing to give up my proximity to friends, shops, downtown by moving a 20-minute drive further south? Is the neighborhood as scary as it purported to be? Will I miss the tree-lined streets, beautiful houses, winding streets of my neighborhood and move to an area that has fewer of these aesthetic qualities?

I expected the process of melding all our lives to be gradual, allowing me and Jim and my kids to adjust to the new situation over time. Making the decision to combine our lives in a 24-hour period is daunting. Of the questions that swirl in my head all night, the one I return to is: Am I ready to take this leap with Jim?

The next morning, still trying to overcome our misgivings about the neighborhood, we stop in at the local funky coffee shop where I ask a man in line buying a coffee if he lives in the neighborhood and what he thinks of it.

“I love the neighborhood,” he says. “I’ve lived here for 8 years now, and it’s been great. There are tons of artists, musicians, and creative types here, because of the lower home prices.” Other people in line chime in with similar sentiments.

We hustle off to do the home inspection. The inspector tells us he grew up in the neighborhood and that he loved it. Everything about the house is sound, despite the incomplete renovations and the lack of bedrooms.

After the inspection, we spend time kicking around the neighborhood, trying to get our bearings. The views of Lake Washington are spectacular, and although from the firehouse, the views of it are peek-a-boo, it’s beautiful from almost any vista around the neighborhood. Our optimism grows as we traverse the streets, take a walk in the local ravine. We already love the oven-fired pizza place. People at the local Safeway seem friendlier than at my local one. Through our tour, I can see Jim’s excitement grow and the feeling is contagious. I too am getting excited. We end back at the house and stand in the driveway looking up at the house as if trying to see our future selves in the windows.

“Should we do this?” Jim asks.

“I need to call the kids,” I say, pulling out my phone. He wanders away to stomp down overflowing blackberry bushes to determine the property’s boundaries.

“But what about my room!?” my daughter laments, bursting into tears. I hate making the kids sad, rip them away from their comfort zone. I try to explain my dwindling finances to my daughter, why the firehouse is a good investment with its double lot and renovation potential.

“And with us doing a lot of the renovations ourselves…”

“It’s all about you and Jim now. You’re just doing this for him. You’re buying him a house.” I realize the crux of her statement. There will be a shift of power in this house. Rather than Jim being a guest in their house, they will be a guest in his.

“I’m not buying Jim a home. He’ll be paying for half. It will be half his house. But it will be your house too. You’ll always have a place wherever I live. I want you to know that.”

“I know,” she sniffs.

“And besides, you’re talking about moving away.” She couldn’t argue, having recently told me of her plan to move in with her boyfriend next summer.

Next, I call my son.

“I’m not moving my senior year of high school,” he says, defiant. I can’t argue. I had been forced to do just that in high school, and it changed the course of my life.

“Ok,” I say. “I promise that we won’t move until you leave for college.”

This means we won’t be able to move into the firehouse for a year. In truth, I am relieved. I too need time to say goodbye to my house and neighborhood. It’s a compromise I’m willing to make. I hope Jim will understand and see that my investment is now both with him and my kids.

Our decision has to be quick in Seattle’s hot real estate market. If we’re going to avoid the bidding war and offer cash, then we need to put in our offer by the end of the day.

I find Jim hacking at a thicket of blackberries.

“If you’re OK with not moving for a year,” I say, “then I think we should make an offer.”

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The Fire House Chronicles – Episode 4

This post is the 4th in a series of posts I have dubbed “The Fire House Chronicles.” See all episodes.

We stood in the middle of the apparatus bay admiring the thick, old beams and high ceilings that was traversed by pipes and electrical conduits. The room was still filled with boxes and odd bits and pieces of a life. A pile of photos, some loose, some contained within broken-paned frames littered the large built-in workbench. I wandered over to a box of old records and began to sort through some of the top ones. I lifted a copy of “Peter and the Wolf,” the same children’s classic that I had grown up with and it seemed like a sign. I know these people, I thought.

EJ explained to us that sellers were elderly and that the husband had done a lot of the work in the house himself until he was diagnosed with kidney disease and wound up on dialysis. The wife was now ill as well. It was clear that moving out had been a difficult process and there was  still a lot of stuff around that they clearly either didn’t want or didn’t know how to get rid of. The scissor lift was a case in point.

“They will be accepting bids on Tuesday, but they have said that if a cash offer came through they would seriously consider it. I get the feeling this will become a bidding war.”

I looked at Jim. I could tell he knew what I was thinking. It would deplete my nest egg, but I could conceivably come up with a cash offer. The thought was terrifying.

“I might be able to do the cash thing,” I said, in what felt like a whisper. Could I really be considering buying another house?

“Would you want to do that?” Jim asked.

“I don’t know. But I think I could. My financial guys won’t be happy though. They will want me to sell Pine St. (my existing house).”

EJ got on the phone and found us an inspector who could do an inspection at 10am the next morning. We bid farewell, and drove away in a daze.

“Are we really seriously considering doing this?” I asked Jim.

“I don’t know. Are we?”

“The house is perfect for the both of us. It has a huge workshop for you, a double lot, historical interest for me…”

“But I don’t know much about the neighborhood,” Jim said.

“No. It will be a haul to get downtown. It’s a long way from my place.”

“But close to my work, and to the highway.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it’ll be a 5-minute drive for me to get to work, and it’s only about 3 minutes to the highway.”

“Well, that’s certainly a plus.”

Our conversation mimicked the circles around the neighborhood we were now driving to try and better acquaint ourselves with the area. The local houses were generally non-descript, mid-century homes, interspersed with a few lovely old craftsmans. Along the main drag, a Safeway, RiteAid, MacDonalds and a handful of other fast food restaurants offered a kind of convenience not available in my existing neighborhood.

At home, we poured over Google maps looking at the house from every angle, researching the history (see the 2nd photo under “horse-drawn chemical Engine #1 for a picture of Fire Station #33), finding old photographs of  the Firestation and Rainier Beach. We hunted the online archives and found that the city had some of the original architectural drawings. We discovered snippets of history about the fire station and grew more excited. I browsed the listing again and again, looking at the photographs, trying to glean as much information as I could. I set up a Pinterest Board to contain all the existing photos and to collect inspiring decorating ideas; everything from stair designs to what it might look like if I painted the interior all white to attic bathroom ideas.

I called my financial advisor.

“I like the idea of your downsizing,” he said. “I assume this means that you will be selling the Pine St. house?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m hoping that maybe I can rent it.”

“I’m not sure that will pencil out,” he said cautiously. “But we can talk about it in more detail if this works out. In the meantime, we can put the money together if you decide to move on it.”

His next question was inevitable.

“If you do buy it, you will need to decide how you are going to purchase it with Jim. Will it be Tenants in Common or Joint Tenancy?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you have any kind of agreement between you and Jim as to the payment of the property, what will happen if something happens to your relationship, that sort of thing?”

“No, not really. I guess we better think about that.”

“Well, you will need to be very clear what happens to the property if something happens to you. Do you want your kids to get the proceeds? Does Jim have heirs?”

“God, it sounds like we need a prenup.”

“It’s not far off. You need to get all those questions answered before you buy a house together.”

“Yeah, I guess we do.” It was beginning to dawn on me that buying a house with Jim demanded a deeper look into our relationship together. Buying this house was going to mean a lot more than just buying a house with Jim. This was going to take our relationship to a whole new level. Were we ready to make that leap?

 

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The Fire House Chronicles – Episode 3

This post is the 3rd in what I expect will be many episodes I have dubbed “The Fire House Chronicles.”See all episodes.

South side of house with blackberries.

The house is surrounded by blackberries that creep within 3 feet of where we stand, just outside the barn doors. They disappear up a slope at the back and side of the house and it’s impossible to see how big the property might be. Two huge maple trees covered in ivy, serve as giant columns that flank the rear of the house, shrouding the area in dappled sunlight.

The barn doors are old and in poor repair, but it’s possible to  imagine that this was where the horse came in and out of the station, with a area in the back for them to graze.

We head back inside and make our way upstairs.

To the left, there is what looks to be a closet with no door. The walls are lined with an array of pipes, that look like the arms of an octopus.

“What is this room? And what’s with all those pipes? I ask.

“Some sort of heated room? EJ suggests.

“Maybe it’s where the firefighters dried their gear,” Jim suggests.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Very cool.”

We continue into the bright living room that we have seen from the pictures. The room is enormous and sunny, painted the same off-white as the rest of the house. The ceiling light fixtures are the first thing we notice – a row of five simple brass fixtures each holding a large clear, round bulb. Although not original to the house, they suit the space well.[image error]

The brass fire pole in the corner of the room goes from ceiling to floor, but the hole in the floor is a false one, a circle of the fir flooring a foot below the living room floor blocks the way down.

“No sliding down that,” Jim says. “That would have to change.”

We move a circular cover on the floor not far away to reveal the hole where another firepole had been. We peer down into the apparatus bay, a dizzying height.

“Maybe we could put this pole back too,” I suggest. “Though landing down there would be awkward. Those cabinets  down there are in the way.”

At one end of the living room, behind the closet with the pipes is another closet-like room, but this one has a window. It seems cozy and I immediately imagine a single chair and shelves full of books.

“This could be the library!” I say, excited.

A wooden bar-height counter opens into the kitchen. The cabinetry is lovely, but the kitchen itself is awkwardly laid out. On one side is a stovetop that, when standing at the stove, looks out to the living room, but there is no oven in sight. Behind the stove is a counter with a brass bar sink at one end and a fridge at the other. This counter is topped with a tall hutch that cuts the room in half. The hutch has several shallow cupboards with glass fronts, pretty but not big enough to hold more than a few glasses. On the other side of the hutch, another larger stainless steel sink and countertop, with a dishwasher beneath creates a galley-like kitchen. I find the wall oven built into the hutch, but on the side with the dishwasher, far from the stove.

“It’s hard to believe this kitchen was actually planned this way,” I say.

“Maybe this side was for entertaining,” Jim says waving his left hand at the area with the bar sink and stove, “And this side was for the servants to clean up,” he says, pointing with his right.

“Servants? You think the owner had servants? It’s all so weird,” I say.

 

As we walk back into the hallway, a man, obviously another realtor is making his way up the stairs with a youngish couple following. They head to the living room and we all smile tensely at each other.

In the enormous bathroom, the original shower stall made from beautiful Carrera marble takes up one corner. Beside it, the original white porcelain urinal, and a newer toilet. An antique armoire, obviously not original to the house, houses a sink and wall lighting.

“Do you think it still works?” I ask no one in particular pointing at the urinal.

“One way to find out…” Jim says. I shake my head and follow EJ to the next room.

[image error]Back room with doors to nowhere

The back room is bright despite one window boarded up and the other covered with a very worn out blue tarp. It looks as if has been there for many, many years. Light comes from a pair of old doors, and there is a window in what appears to be a tower. Jim slides the lock and the doors swing outwards. There is no railing or balcony, and the drop below is easily 20 feet.

“I think this may have been the hayloft,” Jim says. They would’ve hauled the hay up into this room. There was probably a davit over the door at one time.”

“This definitely needs a railing,” I say, standing well away from the opening, trying not to look down.

“There is an opening in the floor in this corner,” EJ says, pulling a board away to reveal a hole cut into the floor. I bet the hay was dropped through it to the stable room below.”

We find a similar hole in the opposite corner of the room.

A set of makeshift wooden steps in the middle of the room leads to the attic above, creating a loft, under which, illogically, are a washer and dryer.

“Do you think they always intended for the stairs to the attic to be here? It doesn’t make sense. This is the nicest room in the whole house, with that view of the property.” I can see it being a perfect bedroom, except for those steps. We would have to find another place for them.”

Double Sinks

Jim and EJ are already climbing to the loft. As they reach the top, there is no railing, and they step gingerly onto the floor above and disappear. I hesitate, not liking the height, but then step bravely into the dark space. The T-shaped area is huge. We enter what was clearly intended as the master bathroom. At one end is a room, not much bigger than a closet with a door. Jim already has it open, and there is nothing but a toilet that faces the door.

“How odd,” I say.

Beside the toilet room, there is a single pedestal sink in front of a rectangular mirror and on the opposite side, another identical sink and mirror.

“It’s the dueling pianos of bathroom sinks!” Jim says.

Beside the sinks, nestled under the slope of the roof, is a waist-high, framed out structure that is too short to be a shower, but that has a fan and light fixture above it.

“What the heck was this supposed to be?” I ask.

“No idea. It’s like they started the renovation, and then just put the hammer down and walked away,” Jim says.

“Maybe some sort of bathtub?” EJ suggests.

[image error]Attic room

The rest of the room is empty and enormous, as it covers the floor area of the entire house. The ceiling and walls are all sloped, but there is a tall peak in the center. At each end are windows that seem tiny compared to the giant room. From one window there is a view of Lake Washington through trees and houses.

“Looks like this was going to be the master bedroom,” EJ says.

“So sad that they weren’t able to see their dream realized,” Jim adds.

I am busy scoping out the room, trying to figure out where a set of stairs might go.

“Maybe if we take them up through the bathroom downstairs? or those closets by the living room? They must be right about here,” I say, stepping to the area I imagine the closets to be.

Making our way back down the stairs is frightening, first, because there is no railing at the top and also because we have left the ‘doors to nowhere’ open, and one misstep would land you 20 feet down. I am shaking when I finally step onto the floor.

Back in the hallway, I look up, trying to imagine a set of stairs in the bathroom.

“Stairs could go here,” I say waving my arm above, pointing at the spot.

The other realtor and his clients are now just leaving the kitchen, and EJ signals for me to be quiet.

“Don’t want to show too much excitement,” he whispers, smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Septembers and Tiaras

Kind David I of Scotland (possibly my 30th great-grandfather)

It’s September. I should know better.

Perhaps it was the one-day shift from summer to fall that happened last Saturday in Seattle, but September caught me off guard again. The melancholy has me wrapped in its fuzzy, warm cloak. I’ve become reclusive and have found a new addiction, but more on that later.

It could be the prospect of turning 50 this month, as well as having what might have been my 25th wedding anniversary, something I only just realized. 25 years. Damn. I had to do the math in my head. Could it really be?

For my 50th, my family was quite insistent that I have a big ol’ party. Since I have carved my weird Canadian niche in this US town with my “Boxing Day” parties, I figured I’d keep the Commonwealth theme alive and have a proper 50th Jubilee. Because then I don’t have to call it a birthday, right?

And yes, I plan on wearing a tiara. Thank you for asking.

Part of the 50th birthday demand from my mother is that I scan through my last 50 years of photos and come up with the most embarrassing. She specifically asked for “the one with the snake.”

Last night, I started going through them and although I laughed at many, the whole exercise made me feel sad and happy at once. On one hand, there aren’t that many photos of me, since I am usually the one taking them. On the other, the ones that I do have of myself are usually me laughing or goofing around with one or both of the kids.

My mom also asked for photos of me with Jim and me with Arron. Pulling out the ones with Jim was easy and made me smile. I avoided the ones of Arron. Should I include the shots of just Arron, since that is mostly what I have? Or do I have to scan new ones of the both of us which means opening actual physical photo albums (if you are under 30, you won’t understand this reference, sorry). And although this month will also mark 14 years sans Arron, I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

This surprises me. Yeah, turns out pulling out old photos of you and your dead husband on the occasion of your 50th birthday, 25th wedding anniversary and 14th deathiversary might actually be a little bit emotional, Ab. Go figure.

And thus I retreat inwards. Have I mentioned that I have an addiction?

Yes, my name is Abigail Carter and I am addicted to Ancestry.com.

Not some *little* addiction suited to the casual family historian, but hours, hours! spent (wasted?) behind the computer clicking through years. I now find myself in the time of William the Conquerer. I think I might be related to him. I suspect that is a sentence you will hear from any serious Ancestry.com addict.

“I think I was related to [place any member of the Royal family in history here].”

It’s only now dawned on me that my new addiction and my September melancholy might actually be related (ha! Did you catch that genealogical reference?).

In some respects, this genealogy thing stems from a curiosity to find out where I came from, but I am keenly aware of one failing of Ancestry.com that I think illuminates my other motivation.

Mapping. Now here’s a great opportunity for you Ancestry.com developers. Here’s what I want: I want you to take all the places that the various branches of my family come from (England mostly) and plot them on a map. Show migrations, years, names, etc.

Here’s why: I think on some subliminal level, I am somehow trying to link my family and Arron’s. Irrational of course. But I can’t help finding great pleasure in imagining our connection in the distant past would perhaps give the present some context. Some cute (royal?) princess brushing past a handsome Viking perhaps? OK, perhaps I have also been reading too many Outlander novels (my other secret addiction).

Grief is so freakin irrational sometimes, I grant you.

I don’t think my connecting the dots is limited to Arron though. I want to do Jim’s family too. His dad’s family is from Wales. Apparently, so were some distant relatives of mine… Can we say “two Vikings?” Yes, please!

The linkages are what fascinate me. The realization (again) that we are all connected. I don’t know what it all means or why this is important to me now as I turn 50 and watch another phantom wedding anniversary pass me by.

But here I am. Suddenly a 50th Jubilee party doesn’t sound so far fetched. Did I mention that King David I of Scotland was my 30th great-grandfather?

Facing September in a tiara will it a whole lot more palatable, wouldn’t you agree?

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A Precarious Balancing Act of Life and Passions

I took a generative writing class to get myself writing again. I’ve been so enmeshed in life and three jobs as I now run an Airbnb, am the Chief Marketing Officer for a startup and the booker of Country and Western bands for a BBQ restaurant. I can’t say my life is ever dull! But writing has fallen off the cliff and I’ve missed it. I forced the issue by taking a class where we do nothing but write for 4 hours.

I pulled out the memoir I’m working on and tried to find a place to start. I sat staring at a sheet of writing prompts until a line jumped out: “Take a character you’ve been having trouble really getting a handle on. Describe that character without using any visual information.” It went on, but that was all I read. I thought about how hard a time I have writing about Arron, my husband. How hard he is to describe. And so I started with an image I had of him, one of the last. It was during a fight, one of the few times I was ever really angry with him. We had been having a hard time. He started a new job, had been miserable for months in his old one, and I felt invisible to him through all of it.

I was surprised when tears started rolling down my cheeks as I wrote. My anger and sadness during that time came back, yes, but there was something more. It was triggering something: a similar feeling I’ve been encountering more recently. I’ve been hard-pressed to name what I’ve been feeling in my relationship with Jim. He’s been distracted for months, most of his energy being poured into a seaplane, to the point I’ve been teasing him about it being his mistress, his “other woman.”

It’s been difficult to fault Jim for being inattentive. I know he will always find me at the end of the day. He will always text, want to tell me the latest plane update, find time for quick dates. I know that he wants to spend time with me. But when we’re together, I can tell that he is thinking about the plane. Or he is making a list, or bent over a computer buying a part. It takes effort to draw his attention away from the plane. Or the motorcycle that he’s building with Carter. Which I adore. I admire his passion. I make room for it, because I know how important such a passion is in life. It’s his passion for life that I admire most about him.

But, in allowing the “other woman” into our lives, I feel myself shrinking. Is it attention I need? I ask myself. I don’t need him every second of the day, but when we are together sometimes, I feel invisible. I come up with ways to broach the subject with him in my mind, but each one sounds trite. “I wish we spent more time together,” sounds weak. We spend lots of time together. “You don’t seem to notice me,” sounds silly because he is so present, when he is present. Except when he’s not. “There’s something missing and I don’t know what it is,” seems to be the closest I can come. How is someone meant to react to that?

I can’t figure out what is is that I seem to be missing. Intimacy? Connection? Time together? Expressions of love? Commitment?

As I wrote about Arron, I realized that I was dealing with the very same issue with him all those years ago. I felt as if I had become and afterthought in his ever more complicated life. I was the one left to hold everything together, manage the kids, the house, the bills, the meals. I was the invisible glue that held it all together.

How often do women do this? It’s a classic tale.

After the writing class, I saw my friend Theo and I told her about what I wrote that day until I eventually stumbled upon this pattern of supporting our men’s passions while neglecting our own needs.

“That’s all men, in a way, don’t you think?” she asked after I listed all of Jim’s commitments. “I think of my own relationships,” she continued, “and I see how often I’ve gotten into relationships with people who resemble the men I grew up with.”

I thought of my own father. He’s a man who you have a relationship with on his terms. His mantra when I was growing up was, “Sure come on by, I’ll be here.” He was always there for me, but I had to make the effort to get there, both literally and figuratively. I had to make the stretch to carve out a relationship with him, which he was happy to accept, but rarely seemed to make a reciprocal effort when the circumstance required it.

I watch Jim struggle to balance his life. He is trying so hard to establish a home base, follow a lofty dream to build and own a plane, manage two rental properties, care for his mother, excel at his job and love a woman and her kids. All very noble and time intensive quests in their own right and as I write this, I think he is no different than most people. Aren’t we all trying to balance our lives with our passions?

His hobbies and dreams are the things I admire most about him but they are also the things that keep him from me.

So should I just shut up and wait for the scales to tip back in my direction? Or will I just wind up waiting forever feeling as if tiny slivers are being sliced off my piece of the pie in order to fulfill another’s appetite. How much do I push back? And how do I articulate me own needs?

Jump up and down, crying insisting that we have lost some mysterious “something” that I can’t name? Demand a weekend away together? Insist he stare into my eyes for four minutes and answer a bunch of ever-increasing intimate questions? Sell my house so we can buy a house together and finally live together?

With Arron, I realize I did a version of the first option and finally got angry. I questioned his priorities. I re-established my own. I got his attention, at least for a moment. But by then it was too late. I had him back for one week. And then he was gone.

I have no answers, just a keen sense of history repeating itself and wondering when or if I will ever learn the lessons life is trying to teach me.

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A Father’s Day Blowout

It almost seems odd to me now how much Father’s Day once had me in it’s grip after Arron died. The hole in our family glared in the Father’s Day spotlight. I spent those early Father’s Days on a NJ beach with a bunch of other 9/11 moms watching our kids play listlessly in the humid summer sunshine. We smiled wanly at each other, ate hotdogs grilled by other kid’s alive dads. Each time I asked myself what I was doing there.

On Father’s Day, I mourned for what my kids didn’t even know was missing. So basically, the day became all about me. I wanted recognition for the ghost role I played in my kid’s lives, some acknowledgement that I was somehow doing it all. I realize now how self centered being in grief is, which isn’t to say that’s a bad thing, it’s just part of the grieving process. But boy, being both a mom and a dad is a tough gig. A lopsided pancake seems well deserved.

The good news is that like all processes, you eventually move onto the next part of the process. This Father’s Day, I find myself in a sort of grief no-man’s land. Maybe after all that angst, there is finally a place where these events no longer have bite. In our household, Father’s Day passes without any fanfare.  I no longer feel so acutely that which is missing. Our new normal has taken hold and we exist now without the need to mark the day. I no longer feel guilty for this as I have in past years, feeling that by not celebrating Father’s Day, we were somehow not honoring Arron.

I realize that this apathy extends to other holidays too, like Arron’s birthday, Christmas, kid’s birthdays, etc. We have stopped forcing ourselves to acknowledge Arron on specific days, and celebrate him when the mood strikes. When his name naturally comes up in conversation.

My grandfather, uncles, cousin and sister during a typical “Big Birthday”

It’s also possible that my apathy for these things just runs in the family. When I call my dad on Father’s Day, he never fails with his “Oh! It’s Father’s Day?” We’re just not big celebrators I guess. My grandmother used to have an annual summer picnic every July called “The Big Birthday” that was meant to celebrate EVERYONE’S birthday at once and where we exchanged silly presents, (wax lips, silly glasses, dollar store toys). One big blowout. Only one event to organize. It worked.

So, all you moms-being-dads out there, get some silly glasses and have a big blowout Father’s Day and know that it does get easier. And know that despite the lack of misshapen pancakes, you are doing a great job!

 

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11 Tips to Help a Grieving Parent

This post was originally published in ParentMap on May 14, 2015.

Every time there is news of someone joining the ranks of the grieving, I grieve for them. It is such a difficult road, and yet, it is an experience we will all have at some time in our lives. If that person is a parent, then I have a special place in my heart for them. The sudden and tragic recent death of Sheryl Sandberg’s husband Dave Goldberg at the prime of his life, is another such story. A power couple in the tech world, parents of two children, they seemed to have the world at their feet. And now life has gone sideways for them all. These stories are hard to hear. They are a stark reminder of what we all have to lose.

It’s often heard among the widowed set that there are people who “get grief,” and then there is everybody else. Before my husband died, I was definitely in the “everyone else” camp. Had I been confronted with a friend who was grieving, I wouldn’t have had a clue what to say or do. I had no frame of reference. No one close to me had ever died. Chances are good that you know or will know a family whose lives have been turned upside-down by loss. Here are some tips for how become one of those who “get” grief.

1. Show up

To the grieving, it often seems as if friends disappear just when you need them most. People sometimes fail to show up because they fear they will say the wrong thing, or be too emotional, or make the grieving person cry, but in grief there are no right words, and everything is emotional. Simply showing up and listening is all that’s required.

2. Listen …

The number one way to supporting a grieving person is to listen to their stories. They need to talk about the details of their trauma because the loss they’ve experienced is massive and talking through such loss is often how one begins to make sense of it. They will also need to talk about their loved one. Many people mistakenly assume that they shouldn’t mention the deceased person because it will be upsetting to the bereaved, but in reality, talking about their loved one is all a grieving person wants to do. They want to remember, they want to keep that person alive by talking about them. Let them talk. Even if you’ve heard the “death story” over and over or know the “how they met” story inside out, and it feels like they are “stuck” or are just rehashing the same things over and over, just keep listening. Grief is a process and talking about it is the way through.

3. … but don’t give advice

While you are listening, you may be tempted to offer advice. Only offer it if the griever has asked for it. Remember, your job is to listen, to commiserate, but not to fix things which is what you are doing when you offer your advice.

4. You can’t fix things

Avoid making pat comments: you’ll feel better soon; they’re in a better place now; you’re young, I’m sure you’ll find love again; you’re strong, you’ll get through it. Grief is not a solvable condition. In a word, “grief sucks,” and there is no way to circumvent the experience. You just have to get through grief, and it’s very hard work. No matter what you do, you will not be able to take the pain away. Be prepared instead to hold a hand through incredibly intense emotions. This will likely be one of the most difficult things you’ve ever done, but it is humbling to realize that you are trusted enough to handle whatever comes.

5. Each person’s grief is unique

Sometimes people will not want to talk about their grief at all and that’s OK too. Everyone grieves differently and there is no “right” way to go about it. There is no set timetable either. Some people may seem to recover quickly while others seem to languish in grief. Be careful not to judge a person’s grief. There is no playbook for this process.

6. Remove yourself from the process

I had many people show up at the door who would hug me and then burst into tears, leaving me to do the comforting. Feeling emotional is understandable, but try and remember that you are there to be the supporter and not the supportee. Emotions will be heightened, and your friend will not be able to contribute much to your friendship during this time. Try to be patient and understand that the grieving isn’t about you, so don’t take the yo-yo emotions of the griever personally. This isn’t to say that you should hide your emotions from your grieving friend. Be honest about what you are feeling, but don’t expect your friend to be able to comfort you in the way you might be used to.

7. Anticipate needs

I can’t tell you how many people said to me, “if you need anything, please call.” I never once called those people. It was the people who showed up at my door at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night with a pint of ice cream who were the people I treasured. Or they would call and offer to take the kids to the park, or the dog for a walk. I had one neighbor who simply mowed my lawn every week. These were the people who were invaluable to me. It wouldn’t have occurred to me at the time that the lawn even needed mowing. That said, be careful when trying to help out. Washing and putting away a deceased loved one’s clothes might seem helpful, but it may be the last thing that still smelled of the person and washing it would be extremely upsetting to the grieving person. Ask before moving things or cleaning up.

8. Set up a meal train

A meal train is a way of providing meals for the grieving family and there a couple of great online resources. Mealtrain.com is one. Set up a page for the family being sure to ask them about dietary restrictions, favorite foods, etc. Then you can share the link to the page via email or social media so that friends and family can sign up to provide meals. If you have people ask what they can do to help, then you can just direct them to the meal train. Most people are relieved to be given a chance to help out.

9. Keep the invitations coming

It’s very alienating becoming widowed. Suddenly invitations to things you did as a couple dry up. People think you are still too sad to enjoy an evening out. Or they are unsure of how to include you, now a single person in a group of couples. Often after about the six-month to a year mark, you stop hearing from people altogether. Widowed people will often tell you that the second year is the hardest. Friends and family have made the mental assumption that the bereaved are “done” grieving and that they no longer need their support, or they might think they are being invasive if they reach out. This is often the time a grieving person needs you the most. The numbness of the first few months has worn off and the real grieving begins.

10. Exercise

Grieving often felt to me as if I had run a marathon every day for six months. I’d fall into bed at the end of the day aching. The same thing will happen to a person who is supporting a grieving person. Take care of your body. Get plenty of sleep, drink fluids, eat well and exercise. Get the grieving person to take a walk with you. Or go to the gym. Or take them for a massage. Grief has a way of getting deep into muscles and can be debilitating. Taking care of your body will make a world of difference.

11. The airplane analogy

Something I heard in my earliest days as a grieving mom was that, like in an airplane safety pamphlet, a parent must put their own air mask on before they help the children put on theirs. This idea, that I needed to take care of myself in order to be able to take care of my children stuck with me. Although this applies to helping a child through grief, this same idea works in the relationship between a grief supporter and a griever. To help a grieving person takes a lot of strength. You need to provide sustenance to yourself before you can provide it to another.

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Book Reading Magic

Deirdre posing with one of my “bargain” dresses.

The magic begins with lunch. Deirdre and I sit in a tin-topped booth table, walls adorned in giant-patterned palm tree wallpaper, a stylish bar lit with tiny drop lights. The bartender, also our waiter charms with his smile and attentive service, dosing us with copious hot water refills for our tea before finally setting a pitcher on the table.

The fact that we are able sit together in a stylish Vietnamese restaurant on a Thursday afternoon is not lost on me. Deirdre skin shines with health. Her hair, curly and greying is trimmed into a cute pixie as it grows back after her year-long assault from radiation and chemo. The brain cancer appears to be conquered and she has been busy converting those errant cells into words that will become her memoir of the experience, Brain Candy.

After lunch we shop. This is not an activity I enjoy, unless it is an excuse to extend a lunch into more time. Only with Deirdre would I dare enter “The Rack,” Nordstrom’s home for overstocks. Only with Deirdre would I know to carouse the “designer” rack and only with Deirdre would I actually find two designer brand dresses for a ridiculous bargain. Deirdre possesses the midas touch for bargain hunting.

Typical of my lunches with Deirdre, it didn’t end until 6pm. There was a time some 25 years ago in Brussels where we first met, that I would arrive at the door of her tiny 400 square foot “garden” apartment with two bottles of wine and some “chocolate” pasta, and we’d still be sitting at her table at 6pm.

The previous few weeks I spent dreading my upcoming book readings for Remember The Moon, my enthusiasm for the book lacking. Marketing the book turned out to be much harder than I anticipated, involving a whole slew of tasks that I didn’t particularly enjoy: social media blasts; setting up “free” or discount days and paying to promote them on sites where I knew I would not see a return; asking bookstores if I could read at their stores; writing media releases and contacting a long list of media outlets only to have zero response. It felt like an uphill battle and I truly wanted it over. I worried that my  attitude would bleed into the reading itself and mar it in some way. My afternoon with Deirdre bolsters my flagging spirit, as do the new dresses.

The following night, Deirdre makes me take off my coat when I come to her house so she can see the new wrap-dress and she squeals appropriately. The dress is a perfect fit, and makes me feel more confident. We drive north to my second reading for Remember The Moon. At the bookstore, a sectioned off expanse at one side of a food-court-type space, we find Lisa, my special book reading guest-star/psychic medium. I suspect I am the first author to invite a psychic medium to their readings, but our unusual alliance is a tale unto itself.

Deirdre and I join her at a large wooden table in the food-court. Lisa seems both nervous and excited, but she is all lightness, smiles and laughter. She has become more confident in the five years I have known her, but I can tell the unusual aspect of this event has her a little off kilter. I am nervous for the same reason. At lunch a few weeks before the reading we both felt a sense that we’d be playing this evening by ear.

Deirdre plies her with questions. How long has she seen “dead people?” (Since she was four.) Can she turn them off at night? (She has learned how to set boundaries, yes. She learned to wear a hat at the beginning, as a way of telling them she was off duty.) I suggest she name her planned memoir “The Hat Comes Off,” which she loves.

Lisa and I posing with the book

I begin to see familiar faces filing into the bookstore. Soon they are gathered in a small alcove in the middle of the store, mostly good friends and acquaintances, plus a new face or two. I read a few selected pieces from the book before telling the story of how Lisa and I met. After I tell my version, Lisa tells hers: she recounts a “powerful” Arron-spirit “popping” into her car as she drives the Vashon Island highway, only her second time to Vashon, having driven up from Portland to visit a friend. Arron insists she visit a coffee shop and shows her my image. The following day, she follows his instructions and is surprised to actually see me in a coffee shop looking just like Arron said I would. I have the bizarre experience of a total stranger asking me if my husband or boyfriend has died recently because she has a message from him. Of course I don’t hesitate to sit with her at that coffee shop to begin a friendship. After she moves full time to Vashon, we do a series of readings together, but readings where I ask direct questions of Arron. I transcribe as he speaks through her and many of those words are woven into the story that is Remember The Moon.

As Lisa talks I notice a friend whom I haven’t seen in a few years find a back row seat. I met Rachael at a gym and eventually discovered she was a pet psychic. I smile thinking that of course she would come to this reading. As she sits down, I notice that she seems shaken, or discombobulated, I assume on account of her lateness. Only later do I learn that she has been there all along, but became so emotionally caught up in our story that she’d had to leave for a few minutes to regain her composure.

After Lisa speaks, I stand up again, preparing to read a final piece, but I am interrupted by a jazz band that begins playing in the food court drowning out my words and so the reading ends. Lisa answers several questions before a book-signing line-up forms. I am self-conscious, trying to think of something personal, fun or witty to write in each book. Deirdre approaches and hugs me with her usual enthusiastic “That was AMAZING!” Another friend tells me it was the best author reading she’d been to, how she loved the special guest star aspect and our unusual story and learning how the book came to be. The air seems to crackle with energy and excitement that surprises me. My worries of the last few weeks finally float away.

At the book signing table with Lisa

Rachael is the last to have her books signed and she meets Lisa for the first time with excitement and enthusiasm. Lisa immediately recognizes her as a kindred spirit and Rachael cutely stammers and giggles as they speak, as if she has just met her favorite celebrity.

The magic continues after the reading as Deirdre, Rachael, Rachael’s husband and I eat dinner together at a nearby pub. Our waitress, who we discover is also a burlesque dancer, is pulled into the excitement and business cards and promises of reconnecting are exchanged. Deirdre and Rachael, both social extroverts bubble in each other’s presence and it is impossible not to be caught up in their froth. There is a moment that strikes me as I watch them when I realize the book is more than me, that the words and thoughts and feelings spill out into the world, effecting magic at every turn.

How do I always forget the power of words?

 

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Two Readings Coming Up!

If you’re in Seattle on March 15th or March 20th, I have a couple of fun events for Remember The Moon!

Sunday March 15th, 2015

Alchemy at Elliot Bay announcing my reading on March 15th!

For this reading, I’ll be talking about psychics, the cover’s painting, and to celebrate the Italian scenes in the book, I’ll be serving delicious Italian hors d’oeuvres, cannolis from “Holy Cannoli” and Lemoncello “special” lemonade.

Location: Elliot Bay Book Store, 1521 10th Ave, Seattle, WA 98122

Time: 3:00 pm

More info

 

Friday March 20th, 2015

I’ll be doing this reading with Lisa Fox, an intuitive medium who I met when Lisa was compelled to enter a Vashon Island coffee shop at the prompting of Arron. That fateful day began a friendship and a crazy idea. I asked Lisa if she could do a series of “readings” where I could ask Arron real questions. Over a six month period and five separate readings, I had a wealth of information, some of which became the basis of Remember the Moon.

Come and hear Lisa and I tell our story of how we met, how we collaborated and hear me read from the book.

Location: Third Place Books, 17171 Bothell Way NE

Lake Forest Park, WA 98155

Time: 6:30 pm

More Info

 

Also, the ebook version of Remember The Moon is on sale this week for 99 cents! Check it out here on March 12, and here on March 14th.

 

 

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Learning To Let Go

From the Osho Zen Tarot deck

I have this Osho set of Tarot cards which I pulled out the other day and did a reading on myself. I have no idea if that’s allowed in the land of Tarot, but it’s kind of fun to do and I usually come away with some kind of interesting insight. I take the cards out whenever there is some issue in my life that keeps me up at night, which lately, well for the last few years really, has been career and money.

The “Letting Go” card commentary included this:

To choose this card is a recognition that something is finished, something is completing. Whatever it is – a job, a relationship, a home you have loved, anything that might have helped you to define who you are – it is a time to let go of it, allowing any sadness but not trying to hold on. Something greater is awaiting you, new dimensions are there to be discovered. You are past the point of no return now, and gravity is doing it’s work. Go with it – it represents liberation.

Given my question about career and finances, this seemed ominously apt. I’d like to say my widow experience has taught me to eschew material things, since we can’t take stuff with us when we die, and for the most part, I do. My daughter will tell you. She laments that I’ve carried the same purse for over three years. I still drive my beat-up, 7 year old Prius. I could care less. But oh, houses. I do love houses.

I think I knew deep down when I bought the house on Vashon Island in 2007, that it wasn’t a sound financial decision. But magical widow brain had me do it anyway. I rationalized the purchase with dreams of writing retreats and healing retreats for widowed people, a dream that has largely come true. I have donated the house to a slew of non-profits who have used it to raise thousands of dollars. The house has given me profound pleasure. I have future dreams of family coming home to nest there.

I won’t lie. Sheepishly, I’ll tell you I’ve done all that New Age “envisioning the life I desire.” I’ve meditated and “asked the universe to provide.” I’ve taken a good hard look at my “abundance blockages.”  I’ve also tried to come to terms with the strange relationship that becoming a widow gave me toward money. I felt so guilty for the way in which I came by it, that I gave a lot of it away. Donated to charities, friends, family. And I bought houses that could heal people. I desired, in an unsustainable way to help others. It seemed a better use of my money to have it stashed in a home that could give people pleasure than in cold, impersonal mutual funds.

In fact, just this past weekend, three widows who I met at Camp Widow came to Vashon and we did some healing (aka, drinking too much wine, learning to two-step, talking entire days away, and screaming for the SeaHawks in a bar during the Super Bowl). #widowweekend.

I have had a pretty nice run of living the author dream, but alas, there hasn’t been a sustainable income in it. It’s been wonderful being a CEO of a start-up, one that I hope to continue, albeit very slowly. But there’s no income in that either. I have to face the fact that it’s time to get back into the money earning world again, whatever that looks like.

I fear my widow magical thinking has left me. Anything seemed possible when I wore that cloak. So, I’m going to go wish upon a star for a six figure job to land in my lap, that Vashon will continue to be a realized dream and that I can finally get a sound night’s sleep again. But if it doesn’t happen that way, I will make peace with that too.

Take that universe!

 

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