The Required Anniversary Post

August 4, 1991. I was 16, and I'd never spent more than about 10 days away from my family. I boarded a plane in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, nervous, excited, scared beyond belief, ecstatic, and yet also sad at leaving my family behind. I was headed for Stockholm, Sweden, Arlanda International Airport, and I didn't speak a word of Swedish.

More than 24 hours later, I was walking through customs in Sweden in my ugly Rotary jacket, made of VISA, America's Freedom Fabric! That thing was fugly then and is fugly now. I like it better now than I did then, but that's a story for another day. I had strained to see out of the windows of the plane, as we landed, anxious for a first glimpse of this new country. We flew on a huge jet, 3 seats next to the windows, 5 seats across the middle and 3 seats next to the other windows. I swear to god, that plane held 500 people, it took for-fucking-ever to deplane and there were hordes of people in the customs lines.

I was exhausted, and scanned the crowd for my host family, people I'd talked to on the phone and seen pictures of, but had never met. Sadly, I don't remember much of that initial meeting. Smiles, hugs, and hellos were exchanged, and we walked what seemed to be 600 miles to the car, but other than that I don't remember the first few minutes with them. They changed my life, have been hugely influential in many decisions that I've made, and I'm still close with them, but I don't really remember meeting them.

It seems as if I've known them a lifetime now. And in some ways, I have. This year marks 16 years since I left America and 15 since I returned. That is a lifetime. In that year I spent in Sweden, I lived more than some people manage in their entire lives. Went more places, had more adventures, made some of the most amazing friendships, had a whole bunch of "firsts," (first time I got intoxicated, first language other than English I learned, first time driving a stick-shift car, and many others) life experiences that I wouldn't trade for all the money in the world.

When I talk about being an exchange student, I often make it sound as if it was the perfect experience, as if it wasn't hard at all, was a constant party. I was very good at recruiting potential exchange students when I was doing lots of that in my 20s because I had such a positive experience.

It wasn't a constant party.

I worked hard to attempt to keep up in school, and worked very hard to learn the language.

I'm fairly certain that to some readers, that will seem fantastic, in the sense of fantasy, because when I tell stories from that year, many involve parties and very silly teen exploits.

But it was life changing entirely due to the family that I lived with. They made me feel as if I was a member of their family; in fact, when I was back to visit in 2003, they referred to me as 'the third daughter,' a title that I was both touched and proud to claim.

I spent untold hours sitting in the kitchen of their home with my host mother, who was my first teacher in the Swedish language. "This is a pot. A spoon. Garlic. Potato. Bread. Flour." Those were among my first lessons. The majority of Swedish that I know I learned from her. She is an amazing and wonderful woman, who I am extremely grateful to.

One host-sister was all of 12 the year I lived with them; she's 27 now. We spent quite a bit of time without the host parents, we were latch-key kids because both host parents worked until around 5 pm five days a week. I have never forgotten her joyous laugh, her gentle voice.

The other sister was here in America while I was in Sweden, so we didn't get to know one another so well in the early 90s. But we've made up for that in the years since, every time we've been together we realize anew that not only do we dearly love some of the same people, but we truly love one another too. She is one of those people that never seems to stop laughing, and never runs out of energy.

And of course in this recitation of my Swedish family, I can hardly leave out Papa. He didn't speak English when I got to Sweden, so if I wanted to talk to him, I had to learn one of the 3 other languages that he spoke. We managed just fine with smiles and charades until I learned Swedish. He is a strong, silent type.

The funny thing about my Swedish family is that they are quite a lot like my American family. Pictures of my host mother from the 60s show her wearing the same hairstyle as my mother did. My parents kept notes about trips scribbled in the atlas that remained in the car in those days before GPS units; my host parents did the same. Notes such as gas milage, restaurants they liked, drive times. The only difference is that the Swedish family's map was of Europe and the American family's was of North America. There are hundreds of small similarities like that, which as we all discovered each one, we were first surprised and then amused and finally, at then end, nearly prosaic about these Twilight Zone moments.

What that taught me, more than anything else, is that people all over the world are more alike than we are different. That we all love our families. That life is pretty similar even thought the vantage point might change.

I miss the Swedish family, think about them nearly every day. The impact that they had on shaping the adult that I am today is impossible to quantify. I'm left with inadequate words to express my gratitude. "Thanks" does not even begin to cover it.

Tusen, Tusen tack till alla som jag fick kanner igen i Sverige i 1991/1992. Jag behalla er alla kar i mina tanker.

Memorial Day

Full disclosure: I am NOT now and will never be a fan of the newspaper USA Today. When I'm traveling and hotels or airlines give away free copies, I don't even bother to glance at it. It is just too close to tabloids for me, a dumbed down version of the national news with far too much focus on superficial stuff. If I want gossip, I'll check the gossip sites I've got in my links list. If I want news, I'll pick up the NY Times or the Wall Street Journal. Don't even get me started on the horrible rag that is my hometown paper, a bare few steps above the USA Today.

That said, yesterday I was waiting for my number to be called at what used to be my favorite lunch spot, where I'd ordered a sandwich and a cup of soup, to go. Really hard to make, right? Right. Anyway. I waited nearly 40 minutes, and out of desperation and boredom, so I didn't start screaming at the staff, I picked up their copy of USA Today and paged through it. This article caught my eye, providing inspiration for a post. Unfortunately, you've got to spend money to get the full version of the article, so allow me to sum up what the author says at the end. He's grateful for Memorial Day because it gives us the opportunity to remember those who are no longer with us. Me too.

I didn't mark the anniversary of my cousin J's death this year with a post about her, not wanting to dwell on her passing, but instead trying to just remember good things about her and her life the week that marked two years since we lost her. And I still don't want to get maudlin about her, were she alive she'd be telling me to "get a fucking grip." (Really. Not one to sugar-coat, our J!)

I've always thought of Memorial Day as more of a patriotic thing, that we were supposed to just think about the service men and women who died for the good ole US of A, but I'm going to ignore that from this year on. Yes, recognize those who died for the freedoms that we enjoy, but also remember those who you loved who aren't here anymore, and remember how fleeting and precious life is.

I want to make a list of those that I miss dreadfully, when they died and who they were to me, but that would be entirely too depressing. So instead I want to talk about what each person taught me, hoping that it will be inspiring rather than a downer.

Grandpa L, not really related to me, but the father of my dad's best friend, my 'surrogate grandpa'; taught me that friends are the family you choose for yourself. He was a big influence on me, treating my sisters and I as little different than his own grandkids. And he taught me that popping bubble wrap is one of life's greatest simple pleasures. He was into mail-order stuff big time, in the days before computers, and he would order stuff from catalogs, send it back, order other things...there was a closet in his office which held mail supplies, from boxes to mailing tape, and he never hesitated to allow my sisters and I to pull out his entire stock of bubble wrap and stomp on it. Try it sometime as a stress reliever.

Grandma S, my mother's mum. A love of making homemade strawberry jam, canning and preserving. Picking strawberries with her and Grandpa S are some of my fondest very early memories. She was a quilter, and some of my love of the domestic arts are from her.

Grandpa S., my mother's dad. He did this hilarious little self-deprecating monologue all the time, about who was the boss in his household, which taught me that you should always be able to laugh at yourself. A vital and important lesson, to be sure.

Grandpa B., my dad's dad. One of the lessons he helped to teach me was the importance of work first, play later. The family spent some time in Florida when I was in second grade, which caused me to miss some school. I did the schoolwork for each day early in the morning with him watching, and then we would ride bikes to the beach as a treat when I was done. No homework, no bike ride.

Great Auntie G and Great Uncle R, on my mum's side of the family. I can still hear Aunt G's laugh, years and years after her death, a great, booming, very not girl-y ha HA ha ha HA, which if you heard it in a store and didn't even see her, you'd know she was there, just from that laugh. She taught me to find humor in almost any situation. Uncle R., a gentle, steady presence, proud of our accomplishments and supportive of our endeavors, his death was my first lesson in mortality. His quiet support was a lesson in how to 'be there' when someone needed you.

"Uncle" L, again no relation, but the father of a very close friend in Sweden. He spoke no English whatsoever, and my first week in Sweden, he was looking at coffee table books I had brought to my host family about America and Ohio. I could see his interest, and sat down beside him and proceeded to tell him, in English, all about the places I'd been in each book, and pointed out pictures of my hometown in the Ohio book. I didn't find out until WEEKS later that he spoke not one word of English. (Dope-slap!!) He taught me that nodding and smiling will get you by sometimes, but also that sometimes keeping your mouth shut and not embarrassing someone is one of the greatest gifts you can give them.

And J, last but not least. I learned so much from her about motherhood, watching her with her children, after having known her as a rebellious and, frankly, difficult child and teen herself, was an amazing and beautiful thing. Her no-holds-barred, tell-it-like-it-is style, inherited from her mother, inspired me as well. You got the unvarnished truth from her, like it or not. I admire that still, wishing I could be that ballsy sometimes.

Isn't it interesting, the varied and diverse things that the people who touch our lives, in ways great and small, teach us?

You Know...

that you're a hopeless addict of NPR when you continue to listen during the fund drives.
My local NPR affiliate is doing their spring fund raiser and oy. They interrupt the news, y'all! How dare they? Makes me nuts. But I continue to listen, even with all the filler they throw in during fund drives because I can't. turn. it. off.

that your sanity is slipping when you're seriously thinking about getting a tattoo.
My mother? Would kill me. My DH? Would probably not be impressed. I'm feeling like this is a further sign of my hold on sanity slipping because the last time I wanted a tat? I was 17. I told someone the other day, "I've always been precocious. Perhaps I'm doing a mid-life crisis a few years early?"

that you're getting OLD when you need your glasses on when you're on the computer; if you don't have them, you can't see the screen, so 'good idea'? Try necessary.
I need the glasses on the computer now. Sigh. I remember when my dad started to need glasses...he was 40. And it was for the newspaper, not the computer. He wears them all the time now, so I know that's coming for me. Can I just be 24 forever? Please?

that spring might actually be coming when you drive home from the gym at 8 pm and it is twilight, rather than full dark.
Initially, I was opposed to the moving of the time change. Because it just seemed stupid to me. But I forgot how much I like it when it doesn't get dark until nine or so.

that you spend way, way, way too much time on the forums when you realize that you've been posting messages for three hours without moving, but can't bring yourself to log off.
Seems like I think I'll 'miss' something if I sign off....

A memory

A year ago today my cousin passed away. She wasn't sick and died unexpectedly, in her sleep, one of hundreds of thousands who are killed by PE every year. She wasn't a celebrity. You, interweb, were not fortunate enough to know her. She WAS a wonderful mother. And a hell of a neat lady. When I’m counting regrets in my life, I thank whatever powers that be that I got to tell her that I thought she was a fantastic mom. I managed to tell her just what I thought the summer before she died. It is hard, sometimes, to tell someone how you really feel, when you want to say wonderful things to them. They get embarrassed, or waive off your praise because it isn't modest to accept kudos from someone, but I managed to find those right words, for once in my life, and told her how proud I was of her for being fantastic with her kids. Somehow, I think maybe there can be no higher praise, and maybe since I don’t have any kids myself I’m not qualified to say that one way or another. But anyway. It makes me both happy and sad to recall that day.

We were at the pool at my parent’s house (don’t I sound like the pampered princess…here’s a hint: I AM.) and it was a cold summer day. That happens sometimes. Cold summer days, that is. Anyway, she was pregnant with her 3rd child, and the other two were happily playing in the pool. Those of you who love the water will understand when I say that the water temperature was higher than the air temperature. So as long as you were in the water, you were, relatively speaking, warm. I had been playing with her younger daughter, and she was laughing at silly, childless me for trying to teach her 18 month old to swim. After a while, I left off trying to teach the baby to swim and sat at the edge of the pool with her. She complained good naturedly about being preggers, and speculated about how well she would handle having 3 children. I told her, I don’t know how you do it with 2, let alone 3. Your kids are so well behaved, so sweet and so goddamed cute and from the outside looking in, it looks so effortless. I think you’ll do fine with 3. You are a great mom. I’d be in the corner in the fetal position, rocking back and forth with my hands over my ears and humming a little tune to myself. She laughed. And then she said, “It’s easy.”

!!!!

I may be clueless when it comes to kiddos, but I know that AIN’T true by a long shot. But she was looking at her daughter, and had such a smile on her face. I’m starting to understand what she meant by living vicariously through friend Jen and her love for her two babies. The moment they’re born, your whole world changes. Love you didn't even know you were capable of overwhelms your soul.

The thing that makes me most angry about her senseless death is that she isn’t getting the opportunity to see those kids grow into amazing people. Dwelling on it has me sobbing, gasping for breath. They were amazing, beautiful kids before she died, of course, but I want her to know about the women they will become. I want her to be there when they graduate from high school, graduate from college, choose their careers, and when they marry their soul mates. I want her to know who they choose to be their soul mates. And I want her to be able to be there when they give birth to their own little angels, should they choose to do so. Those who believe in an afterlife tell me that she can see them and that she does know.

I dunno about that. I struggle with my own religious beliefs every day. Especially since she passed away, I have trouble believing anything that the Catholic church of my childhood taught me. Please tell me what greater purpose her death served. Why a loving and benevolent higher power would choose to end her life when she was only 28 years old. 28! Why a loving and benevolent higher power would choose to allow her kids to grow up without their mother, and her husband to endure without his soul mate. A friend of a friend who is a bishop in the Baptist faith came to see me about a month after she died, and I was still so very angry. He told me that I had to imagine all that questioning about why she died as being in a room with no door, and that I had to make a door, leave the room, and close the door behind me. That at another time in my life, I could go back to that room, and try to answer some of those questions. Somewhat surprisingly, that was really helpful to me. At the time, I was making myself nuts by not being able to focus on anything other than WHY. He told me that if I didn’t stop asking why, I wasn't going to be able to survive the grief.

A year later, I’m not “over” her death by a long shot; I don’t think you ever stop grieving. When I think about her mom, all I can think about is her incredible pain. The huge, raw, gaping wound that she lives with every day. Every waking breath she takes, every day, she lives with the fact that her youngest child is gone. The extreme pain of having to pick out the clothes that your child will be buried in. And then her husband having to pick up the pieces and raise their kids on his own, his pain is something I can’t contemplate, even after a year, because it hurts me too much. I can’t even imagine how it feels for him. He is the strongest man that I know. The day of her funeral, he had many folks willing to keep the kids for a few days (or weeks), but when the rituals were all over, he picked them all up, and took them home by himself. When family members offered assistance, he said, "I've got to start doing it on my own." And every day since then, he’s done just that. His strength, his skill in surviving, is inspirational to me.

About six months after she died, a TV crew came to town and filmed the story. Now, potentially everyone with a TV in America has seen her story. The week the TV show was here was difficult and very inspiring at the same time. The support that the family received from our community was extraordinary. And yet, we’d all rather be anonymous with her in our lives than “known” with the publicity and her gone. Bittersweet. There’s no better word for that feeling.

People who live here and do not know my connection to her bring tears to my eyes when they speak so casually about the week the TV crew was here. How cool it was, how it was on the local news every day, how they liked or didn't like the show. I want to stop them and ask if they remember that all the hype happened because someone died. Someone real, with kids and a husband, a huge extended family and co-workers who all loved her. (Please don't leave me comments or send me e-mails asking which TV show, in the interests of protecting my extended family's privacy as well as my own, I will not answer.)

I re-learned a lesson the week that she died, something I had forgotten. A vital lesson that I now work hard every single day to remember. We’re on this earth for such a short time. Think about it. If the average lifespan of a healthy person is 80 years, that really isn’t that much time. In that short space of time, we do not have the TIME to hate, or to fight with our families or carry around a bunch of regret. Did you wake up this morning, swing your legs over the edge of your bed and put your feet on the floor to start your day? Well, you ought to count yourself as pretty damn lucky then, because you had a warm bed last night, you can walk, there's a roof over your head, and hey, you're still alive.

Moral of the story? Take a good, long, hard look at yourself, your life. Discard whatever isn’t working for you, even if that IS your familial relationships. Count your blessings if it isn't your family. My sister said very memorably when she gave the toast at a friend’s wedding that “Friends are the family that we make for ourselves.” I think she was quoting someone, and I'm not sure who, but it is a great line. Cherish those that you love. Tell them you love them. Give frequent hugs. Be one of those people that spreads joy. Kiss someone in the rain. (Thanks to Milady for the recent reminder about how that’s one of life’s great joys.) Oh, and eat the chocolate. Worrying about cholesterol and how much you weigh is a waste of energy. (She typed while eating a pop-tart.)

Soundtrack for the day: U2’s “All That You Can’t Leave Behind” album, but especially the song “Beautiful Day”. In memory of a beautiful mommy.