Siblings Unrivaled

I am aware that I’m quite blessed, and I try to take notice of my blessings regularly. Of course, like everyone, some days I become ridiculous and whine about inconsequential things but, for the most part, I try to be thankful for each day and all that comes with it. I’m sure there are people who find my intentionality about life annoying. I won’t name any names. Regardless, I find that most days bring something about which to be thankful.

And even whole weekends.

The past weekend was one of the best of this year. My siblings came to visit. Actually, my siblings, my niece and my great nephew all came to visit. I was delighted to have them here. Although that Great Aunt thing makes it sound like I should have my hair in a bun and knee-high hose rolled down to my ankles. But, maybe that is just my overactive imagination.

The purpose of their visit morphed over time. The original reason for their visit ended up not having anything to do with why they were actually here. But in the end, everything about their visit was perfect and necessary…and a blessing.

My siblings and I truly appreciate each other. This wasn’t always the case. My sister revealed that that she dropped me on my head not once, but twice, while we were children. Of course, she says neither time was deliberate. But, I’m fairly certain she wasn’t exactly sorry when it happened. Nevertheless, in adulthood, my siblings and I have discovered that we have a wonderful relationship, enjoy one another’s company, laugh a lot, and all survived our crazy childhood intact.

Well, if you don’t count my misshapen head.

Maya Angelou says that every woman should know that her childhood may not have been perfect…but it’s over. I would include men in that sentiment. And I think my siblings and I have been able to view our childhood from that perspective.

I am grateful that my brother and sister were able to be here and visit our mom. In just a few short days they were able to experience the health roller-coaster we’ve been riding for the last five months. One day she was really good and the next day she was strapped to a gurney being hauled off to the Emergency Room. They were able to help me have a conversation with Mommie Dearest about how much more of this drama she wants to endure and when to say enough is enough. Together we made the decision to have her over on Sunday afternoon, knowing that would mean she’d be in bed for the next couple of days. We weren’t wrong. But we all felt it was worth it.

And they cheerfully ate lots of squash.

We looked at old family photos and discovered unknown resemblances. Some a little spooky! It took all three of our brains to recall the location of three houses we lived in Aurora and all day to find them on GoogleMaps. We drove to them and tried to remember our lives there. We were only marginally successful, each remembering some little snippet. Two of the houses were across the street from the runway at Stapleton Airport and Karen remembered sitting in the front yard awaiting the arrival of The Beatles airplane. We discussed the absurdity of moving from one house to the one next door. And the fact that the shabby little houses looked pretty much the same as they had looked all those years ago when we lived there.

We admitted that returning to childhood memories can sometimes conjure up unsettling feelings. And celebrate that we have one another to share both the memories and the discomfort. Mostly, we are happy to have friendship with one another.

It is a blessing to spend time with my siblings. These are the people with whom my earliest memories are shared. And my worst. These are the people who love me no matter what. People I am like in so many ways and people I’m vastly different from. We share DNA. And concern about our elderly mother. They think I’m funny. Sometimes. Other times they patiently tolerate me.

I adore both of them.

I am blessed to have them in my life. For years I longed for what I now have. So much craziness in our family made it seem impossible. One day we discovered we didn’t have to perpetuate the craziness and the result was a delightful sibling relationship.

It is every bit as wonderful as I imagined it could be.

Filling the Void

I’m very fascinated by relationships. I probably should have been a psychologist or something. Well, maybe not. Psychologists aren’t supposed to cry with people in distress, drink with people who are confused or tell depressed people to ‘snap out of it!’ Regardless, I am always amazed at how friendships start. What unlikely series of events occur that connect people. Or, how is it that old friendships, once drifted apart, are brought back together.

For example, my former college roommate, Kathy, and I lost touch right after graduation. We didn’t really mean to. She moved to Atlanta. I moved to Los Angeles. We didn’t communicate for over 10 years and then, one day, both of us ended up taking our husbands to the emergency room of a hospital in Aurora, Colorado where we saw one another and immediately rekindled our friendship. It turns out we even lived in the same neighborhood! We might have lived within a mile of one another and never know about it if our husbands hadn’t both needed critical medical attention at the very same time.

I admit, relationships come easy for me. Anyone who knows me would say that using the word ‘outgoing’ to describe my personality is something of an understatement. But aside from the fact that I talk with just about anybody, I have also become acutely aware of how people’s lives intersect with mine.

When I was taking the train to work I met an interesting man who, most days, took the same route. Our acquaintance began when, due to schedule changes, the train ran late and RTD gave $5 Starbucks gift cards to everyone. He said he wouldn’t ever use his and asked if I wanted it. I did. And we started talking. We chatted on the train home from work several nights a week for many months. When I stopped taking the train, I stopped seeing him. I have no idea why we met and chatted all those evenings but I’m sure there is some reason.

Or, there is the woman who I’ve run into for several years, here and there. Sometimes I remember her name. Sometimes I don’t. I’m pretty sure she never remembers mine. Mostly because she always asks. When I worked at the library she came in and visited with me frequently. Years later we happened to ride the same bus. Just this summer she wandered into Steve’s booth at the art market while I was there. Usually we just chit chat. But, for some reason, our lives intersect every so often.

I’ve met people with whom I felt an instant attraction. An instant desire to know and become friends. Others I could take or leave. Still a few that I’d just pass on, thanks. But, I always wonder why I either feel a connection or I don’t. What is it that attracts us to others? I read a book about limbic resonance a few years ago. The limbic region is the place in our brains that resonates, on an emotion level, with other mammals. The book never explained why I could feel that resonance with some people and not others, though.

In fact, I’ve actually had a resonance with a woman I never met.

When we bought our house there was a little bedroom downstairs that we didn’t need at the time. I thought the wallpaper in the bedroom was unattractive but it matched a quilt that my grandmother had made so I kept the paper up and used the quilt as a bedspread in the guest room.

A few years later, as our family grew, we moved Charlie into that bedroom. But before we did, I stripped the ugly wallpaper. As I painstakingly tore sheet after small sheet from the walls I thought about the person who had chosen it. I pondered who she was and the fact that she had lived in my home. She called it her home at one time. In spite of her poor taste in decorating, I wondered what kind of person she was. Truthfully, I became a little obsessed with wanting to know about her. I found out a few weeks later.

I loved my house but, every so often as our kids were growing up, Steve and I would decide that it was just too small and embark on a house hunting venture. Inevitably, we would come home and decide that we didn’t want to move. I could never make up my mind that we really needed a bigger house. Leaving mine would feel too much like leaving an old friend.

Except once.

We were driving through a neighborhood, dropping one of our kids off somewhere, and a house caught my eye. It had a ‘for sale’ sign in the unkempt yard and something about the house just called to me. I was captivated. I had to see inside.

We had a realtor take us through it and, in spite of the immense amount of work it required, I was absolutely enthralled with the house. If ever I was going to leave my current beloved home and buy another one, this would be it.

But Steve had other ideas. He didn’t share my enthusiasm for the house at all. Yes, it had a nice floor plan. Yes, it had more room. All Steve could see, however, was the amount of work necessary to make it habitable. His point was that the house we currently lived in needed a lot of work. Why would we buy something that needed even more? Eventually I acquiesced, content to stay put in our crowded, little house.

A few days later I was visiting with my neighbor, Trish. She had four little boys who always reminded me of characters from Tom Sawyer. Blond, freckled, sunburned and barefooted. To tell the truth I thought they were hooligans. Anyway, she told me they were moving. While I secretly cheered, I asked where. She told me the address. That was my house! The house that called to me out of the blue! The house I had wanted to buy!

I immediately told her I knew exactly which house and how much I loved it. She went on to tell me that her best friend had lived in the house with her husband and children but had fallen on the ice in the driveway, suffered a brain aneurysm and died the year before. Trish, wanted to buy it and live in it to feel close to her friend.

Well, okay, when she put it that way, she could buy the house.

And then, in the most offhanded way, she added, “Oh…she used to own the house you live in.” Wait. She was the one who had put up the hideous wallpaper? She had owned the current home I loved? This person I’d never met, moved out of the house I loved and into the only other house I’d fallen in love with? And then she died?

I didn’t really like the pattern.

But what were the odds? Probably about the same as the odds of meeting my long lost roommate in an emergency room 10 years later, I’d guess!

That night I sat in the downstairs bedroom and thought about the woman I’d never met but whose spirit must have had something kindred to mine. Sure, they are just houses, but the only two houses that I’ve ever loved and desired to make a home were the same two that some woman I’d never met had loved. And now, she was dead. I’d never meet her. But somewhere our spirits met.

Since that experience I’ve become acutely aware of the people I meet. Even in passing. Why do we connect with some people, and not with others? Why do we fall in love with some people, and not with others? Why do our paths repeatedly cross with some people, and not with others?

Mysteries.

I don’t think I’ll ever know the answers to my questions. But, I can be intentional about paying attention to the people whose lives intersect with mine. I can show them kindness, and caring, and love. We might not notice the void in our souls before crossing paths with others. That doesn’t mean the void isn’t there.

Waiting to be filled.

A Divine Knowing

Recently I’ve been bombarded with thoughts about our desire to be known. From what I can tell, our one great need in life is to be known by others. Superficial relationships abound but, when it comes right down to it, with so much hurt in the world, what we most want is to have other people in our lives who know us. People who know what we need. What words to say. Or not. What makes us laugh. Or cry. People who know the good and bad in us. Even what our favorite color is. We all need to be known.

What follows is a story of the ultimate knowing. But, unfortunately the story doesn’t have a very pretty beginning. And there is no way to tell the story without starting with the ugly truth.

It goes like this.

One warm, sunny October morning, as I was nearing my 15th birthday, my father took his own life in the garage of our rented Michigan home. On the morning of his death, I had gone to school. Looking back, it is pretty obvious that my father had calculated a foolproof plan. He dropped me off at school and called my, then, 22-year old brother, Darrell, to tell him what he was going to do. In spite of my brother’s best efforts to get to my father in time, he couldn’t. My father followed through. My brother arrived only in time to find his father. Dead.

For many reasons, our family handled the tragedy of our father’s suicide badly. My siblings and I were all far too young to know how to deal with the situation in a healthy manner and our mother was ill equipped to deal with her own grief, let alone guide her children through the process. What followed was, simply, survival. We all did the best we could. Darrell became somewhat reclusive and turned inward. He retreated into a world quite different from what he had known growing up, but which felt safe. For years he was haunted by what he had experienced.

The years leading up to our father’s suicide had been tumultuous and difficult. Our father’s life, once full of promise, was being eroded by alcoholism and mounting, untreated, mental illness. He was tormented and, sadly, as children, my siblings and I watched his decent…helplessly. We were without means to lift him from the ever deepening hole into which he was falling.

At one point, when Darrell was about 16, he and my father visited our grandparents home in Oklahoma. Just the two of them made the trip. Our family vehicle had been repossessed and my father’s parents were graciously providing us with a car. They had gone to retrieve it.

While there, my father sat despondently in his parent’s living room; in tears. He leaned forward with his head hanging. His shoulders were hunched and in his despair he didn’t even wipe away the tears. He sat there as a teardrop hovered at the end of his nose, as though afraid to fall.

My brother watched this scene playing out and, as a teenager, after years of watching our father coming apart, he felt disgusted by my father’s pathetic demeanor and utter hopelessness. Why couldn’t he at least wipe the tear off his nose?

Time seemed to erase my brother’s memory of the tragic scene. Or maybe it was just that far more tragic memories replaced that one. Regardless, he didn’t think of it again.

Many years later, after my father’s suicide, as Darrell was coming to terms with what had happened, he heard the voice of Jesus calling him into a relationship. Part of that process included a silent retreat. One afternoon during this period of retreat, as my brother wrestled with Christ to release his own demons, it started to rain. Emotionally fatigued from the work he was doing, Darrell went for a walk on the grounds of the retreat center just as the cloudburst ended.

As he walked the path of the retreat center he came upon a bronze sculpture of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus leaned forward with his head hanging. His shoulders were hunched and in his despair, Jesus just sat there as a raindrop hovered at the end of his nose, as though afraid to fall.

Arrested by the sight of Jesus in the exact same posture he had seen our father in years ago, Darrell was immediately transported back to that day when he saw our father crying in his parent’s living room.

There was Christ. There was our father. There was the reality that we have the capacity to see Christ in everyone. Even the hurting, despondent, despairing alcoholic we called Daddy.

Jesus met my brother that day and made Himself known. Christ knew what Darrell needed, and Darrell was known. And, because he knew and was known by Christ, Darrell was able to see Christ in our father, even long after his death.

In much the same way, when we know and are known by Jesus, we have the capacity to see Christ in others. In our spouses. And our friends. And our children. In annoying co-workers. And grouchy neighbors. When we see Christ in others how can we help but be drawn to know them?

A divine cycle of knowing.

Beady Eyes and Red Leggings

Interest in birds has always seemed like an old person thing. Not that I don’t like birds. Or, old people, for that matter. I do. I like to hear their melodic songs in the early morning hours. The birds, I mean. But, for me, birds have always just been part of the environment. I haven’t actually paid that much attention to them. I guess, now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve just, basically, taken the birds for granted.

I’m starting to feel bad about that.

Anyway, when I first met Steve’s parents I thought they had an inordinate interest in birds. His dad had numerous bird feeders around and flocks of birds would fly into their yard to eat. They were colorful and pretty. But, I mean, they were…birds. His parents got all excited about them and could identify various ones. It was all a little weird, if you asked me.

I’ve noticed, this summer, however, that along with numerous other backyard improvement projects, Steve has hung a bird feeder. It is sort of a cutesy deal, made from a broken picture frame. He’s creative and it works. And the birds love it! Not as much as the squirrels, maybe, but they love it. All kinds of birds are coming to our yard now. ‘Feasting from the frame,’ I like to call it.

Many mornings we get up early and go outdoors to enjoy our coffee. The birds come around for their breakfast and we are starting to see the same ones (or at least they look like the same ones…it is hard to tell) coming around regularly. And yes, I have a propensity to name them and give them human characteristics. Like one plain-Jane little Mourning Dove who I swear is wearing red tights. I mean she may be in mourning, but, I’m pretty sure she puts on those red tights to say, “Look at me world!” Steve thinks maybe she’s supposed to have legs that color but I’m pretty sure a drab, grey bird had to take matters into her own hands...or wings, I suppose...and brighten up her wardrobe.

I can relate.

So anyway, there we were one morning, talking and watching the birds when Steve said, “I wonder what that one with the orange head is.” I looked at him aghast. He was quick to assure me that he wasn’t going to get all bird wacky on me and start reading bird identification books. I was skeptical. With good reason.

A few days later, Steve came home from a trip to the library and, tucked into the middle of a stack of books was…a bird identification book! Hey, now…I thought that wasn’t supposed to happen! He assured me it was just a temporary lapse of judgment. The book is still here, though.

I admit, I sort of like the bird thing.

And if that means I’m getting old. Well, so be it. I’m going to get old regardless, so why not do it while enjoying the company of birds. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with getting old. We don’t have a lot of choice in the matter so we might as well embrace it.

With all this bird business, I’ve noticed something. Birds eat a lot. Which is fine. I don’t think they eat more than they need, although they do eat frequently. But they don’t hoard. I don’t see any squabbling or fussing about ‘me first.’ They simply fly in, eat a bit, and then fly out. I’ve yet to see a bird look worried about whether or not there will be enough.

Which has me thinking that we really ought to learn from the birds. Maybe we shouldn’t worry so much about tomorrow. Maybe we don’t have to hoard and save and stock up. Maybe we should simply trust that what we need will be there for us when we need it. Our culture doesn’t teach that, of course. But, I’m not sure our culture has it right. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from the birds…take what you need and leave the rest for the others.

And, when feeling drab. Wear red.

Night of the Living Squash

I hate to admit that my garden is starting to scare me. My sweet little garden that I planted too early in the spring and got covered with snow; the one I spoke kindly to and nurtured lovingly, is starting to get out of control.

I realize the phrase ‘out of control’ is relative. For example, yesterday, while visiting my mother I decided to give her a little thrill by running down the hallway while pushing her wheelchair toward a plate glass window. I believe it was at that point that Anna told me I was out of control and my mother said she was glad Anna was around to keep me in line. Apparently the nursing home set frowns on that kind of behavior. Anyway, I wasn’t actually out of control. I could have stopped running at any time. But I guess Anna was concerned that my antics would end badly and then yes, things might have gotten out of control. But that really has nothing to do with my semi-frightening garden.

It has been a pretty stressful summer. I’m not going to lie. My mother’s lingering and seemingly unsolvable illness takes a fair toll. And the process of writing a dissertation and awaiting feedback is a bit nerve-wracking. So the garden was intended to be a relaxing and rewarding project amid the stress producers over which I have limited control. It started out that way. Early on I got beautiful and delicious spinach from my sweet little garden. I’ve made numerous salads from the heads of Romaine lettuce that have flourished. My herb garden is thriving and while I can’t possibly use the amount of cilantro and parsley growing out there, they are at least staying in their little beds and behaving nicely.

The problem is the squash.

I think it is plotting to take over the world. Seriously. When I first planted the tiny little squash plants I put four of them in each bed. The beds are small but the plants were small so I figured it was a nice little arrangement. I plopped a tomato plant in the middle of each bed. It was all so cute and precious I sort of thought I should wear a prairie dress and a bonnet.

Each morning I dutifully went out and exclaimed at how lovely the plants were growing and how beautiful they were. Things were going along so nicely. I pulled three zucchini and made two loaves of bread from them. A few more crookneck graced our shish kabobs. It was all pretty idyllic.

And then came monsoon season.

Which, in and of itself was a bit of an anomaly. We don’t actually have monsoon season in Colorado. Typically, by mid-July there are lots of dire predictions of dry bones lying around from the terrible drought conditions. We are told to stop watering our lawns and then people drive around from the water district using up gallons and gallons of gasoline in search of the rogue suburban resident rebelliously wearing all black and watering the grass at midnight. But not this year.

This is the year of the monsoon. I think it has something to do with one of those Nino’s. What started out as a nice, refreshing, gentle daily afternoon pitter-patter of rain has, over the past couple of days, morphed into a rather violent cacophony of pouring rain, brilliant lightning flashes, and crashing thunder. All night long.

Which brings me back to the squash.

Had I done any actual research on gardening, I might have discovered that squash plants grow quite large. They spread and vine and make quite a growing ruckus, truth be told. I, of course, didn’t know this when I planted my cute little arrangement of four squash plants and one tomato in the 3’ x 3’ bed. Now the squash are growing outside of the beds, hanging off the edges and producing zucchini and crookneck as though they are operating an assembly line. The spaghetti squash plant has actually grown from one side of its bed, across the entire bed, and is reaching out to touch its squash friends in the bed next to it.

It is all a little frightening.

Last night, as I was trying to sleep but couldn’t because of the gigantic thunder and lightning storm raging outdoors, all I could think of was, ‘the squash are getting watered!’ And then, in the morning the sky clears and the sun comes out and beats down on the squash and they grow. And grow. And grow.

I’ve warned my family that if they can’t find me one day, they should look for me in the squash patch where I’m fairly certain there is a plan brewing to take me hostage.

Maybe before next summer I should do a little research. In the meantime…zucchini anyone?

The Story of Agnes the Bird....

I don’t fancy myself as Cinderella. Honestly, I don’t.

Granted, I appreciate the small woodland creatures in my backyard. The bunnies and squirrels do whatever bunnies and squirrels do, while I read or write outdoors, and it makes me happy. The fish and snakes are, admittedly, a bit more difficult to reach on a limbic level but I appreciate their company nonetheless. And the birds are constantly chattering and chirping. It is a happy little place, my backyard.

It is a nice place to go and center myself if things feel unsettled. And it has been a slightly unsettling week. Every day this week I’ve had a meeting or conversation with various staff and medical professionals regarding my mom’s discharge from rehab. Every day someone has said they think maybe she is ready to go home. Every day I have said if they feel the need to use the word maybe in the sentence regarding her release, she is not ready to go home. Every day I watch her decline. I mention it to the nurses but, because they don’t know her like I do, they don’t really see it. After a short rally it did seem she was nearing the point where she would be ready to go back to her apartment. But, in recent days, I have seen a change. It feels like we are in a continuous loop and we just can’t seem to break free.

This morning I was in the backyard, on the telephone with my mom’s nurse, when I noticed a bird in our backyard pond. Upon closer inspection I saw a little pigeon just sort of floating around the pond. She was alive and alert but clearly unable to get out of the pond and okay, maybe I’m reading a bit too much into her little beady bird eyes, but she just looked resigned.

I spoke kindly to her and told her I’d get her out of the water. I found a shovel and gently scooped her out of the pond and set her in the grass. My first thought was that Agnes (the name Anna and I later gave her) was going to die. I considered digging a shallow grave to bury her in but then I decided that was premature and probably wouldn’t really encourage her will to live. So, I tabled that idea and went in the house so that Agnes could rest quietly.

A while later I checked on Agnes and she looked pretty much the same. Alive. Breathing. But not exactly doing the bird happy dance. I left her to her own devices again. The next time I checked on Agnes she was walking. I thought that was a good sign so I said a few nice things. One can never get too much encouragement. Even a bird. I went to the bird feeder where I had watched a squirrel gorging himself earlier, and scrounged a bit of bird seed. I set it on the ground for Agnes. If I got too close she scurried away. She wasn’t making any attempts to fly and I hoped that a bit of food would help. I mean, maybe her blood sugar was low after all that swimming or something.

Eventually Agnes made her way around the yard. And then it started to rain. By this time Anna was in on the ‘Save Agnes’ mission and ran outdoors in the rain to put a blanket over a mesh chair to provide dry shelter for our little waterlogged bird. Sometimes she went under it for shelter. Sometimes she walked around in the rain. But it was nice to know she had shelter if she wanted it.

Later, the sun came out and Agnes resumed roaming around the yard. She hopped up on the woodpile. I thought that was a good sign so I went back outside to say ‘good job’ and encourage her to try flying. She stared at me and I’m pretty sure she was telling me she’d fly when she was good and ready. It was about then that I saw the similarities between my mother and Agnes.

This went on pretty much all day and later, when I went out to find Agnes, she was gone. I searched the wood, the trees, and the bushes but there was no Agnes. Apparently she had flown away. But, as I was making my way back into the house, I noticed movement around the pond. I went to check it out and there was Agnes! She’d fallen back in the pond! I’m not sure if she flew or walked to the pond but, however she got there, she was once again floating in the pond, unable to get out.

Oh, Agnes!

I went back to get the shovel. Out of the pond came Agnes. I placed her under the wheelbarrow, since it looked like more rain was coming.

Agnes wasn’t looking too well. The happy ending reward I hoped for may not come to fruition and I might end up digging that shallow grave after all. Nevertheless, I know I’ve done the right thing by Agnes. I hope if she revives enough she doesn’t end up back in the pond again. But she might. I can’t control the outcome. All I can do is serve Agnes in the best way I know.

And so it seems the same type of situation exists with my mother. For reasons I can’t identify, my mother becomes ill, rallies a bit, and just when I think she’s going to revive and all will be all right, like Agnes, she ends up back in the pond.

I can’t see the end of the cycle. I hope Agnes will fly and I hope my mom will once again revive long enough to find fault with just about everything I do. Mostly, I hope my mom’s health will be restored enough to enable her to enjoy what time she has left. But, I just don’t know. I can’t predict.

A few minutes while ago I got a telephone call that my mom’s physician plans to do more tests to see why she is heading downhill again. The staff is seeing it now. Just after that phone call, I went to check on Agnes. She had moved away from the shelter of the wheelbarrow and was sitting in the yard.

Stoically.

Well, frankly, she looks a little pissed off.

I’m not sure, but I think Agnes told me I needed to comb my hair. Maybe there is hope.

I Have a Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore....

I pretty much follow an ‘early to bed; early to rise pattern.’ At this stage in life I am relatively healthy, although I’m waiting on the other two payoffs to come to fruition. Last night, however, the early to bed part seemed rather elusive. Unable to sleep before Anna got home, I had stayed up later than normal. I had just turned off the light when Parker came home and asked if I was awake. Yes. I was. He came in, plopped on the bed and proceeded to say, “I think I might have forgotten to tell you that I’m going to Kansas for a couple of days.”

Indeed, this was the first I had heard of it. I asked when he was going. He replied, “Tomorrow.”

I asked why. “To see a movie.” A movie. In Kansas?

After reminding him that we had a movie theater a mere two miles from our house, he told me this was a ‘special’ movie. Apparently IMAX is showing Tornado Alley but they forgot to show it in Colorado, and Parker really wanted to see it. He is a tad obsessed with large tornados and enjoys watching the Storm Chasers cable show. This being the final week that it will be shown in Kansas, it was time to get on the road!

I asked if anyone was going with him. He said, yes, his friend Sarah was going. He went on to say that everyone else had responded a bit like I had (“Driving to Kansas to see a movie?”), except Sarah who had said, “Let’s go!” That seemed to be all it took to get a plan going. Oh, and they would be camping.

In Kansas.

I tried really hard to think of something that sounded more horrible than camping in Kansas and only a few things came to mind. Most of them involved bodily torture. But, he was excited to be going and I wasn’t about to be the wet blanket on the camping in Kansas fun! And really, who doesn’t love extreme heat, humidity and mosquitoes?

This morning he was up early finding the tent and camping equipment. Sarah arrived and just before they left, Parker mentioned that he needed to get a pillow. It was at this point that Sarah realized that she had planned for food but had failed to plan for a sleeping bag or pillow. Parker got her a sleeping bag, I got her a pillow. I asked if they had bug repellent. No, that hadn’t occurred to them. I gave them multiple bottles of bug spray. A quick hug, a quick mom admonishment not to drive like a maniac and to be aware that semi-trucks are larger than his little Mazda, and they were on their way.

Two hours later, Parker called to say that they had a flat tire and were walking the mile to the tire store. I assumed this meant they were walking along I-70 but I tried not to think about it. Last I saw Sarah, she had on cute little fashion sandals. Parker said he hoped that he could just have the tire plugged rather than purchasing a new one and, if not, they would probably spend the rest of their lives in Byers. Nevertheless, nothing in his voice indicated that he was nonplussed by the situation. They were still enthusiastic to continue the adventure.

I haven’t heard from him since then. Which, didn’t bother me until just now as I am writing this.

The frivolity and spontaneity of it all made me smile. The lack of preparation made me laugh. It caused me to reflect on the numerous times I’ve embarked on adventures equally as hair-brained and the delightful memories that followed.

Far too often, as we age, we forget to throw caution to the wind and just live. The planning and preparation can help make the trip more comfortable…but I wonder if sometimes we don’t suck the joy out of the journey with so much preparedness.

But then, I suspect they will appreciate not having to fight mosquitoes all night. Perhaps there is a happy medium in there somewhere. Regardless, their capricious little adventure reminds me to live in the moment. Even in Kansas.