Finished!

2012 book of Conan is all done and ordered! Grandparents and great grandparents can expect to receive their copy around the 15th. In the meantime, I believe the link below will take you to an online version if you'd like a preview.

Click here to view this photo book larger

Life, Death & the Holidays

Sorry the blog has been dark for a while, it's been a busy and emotional month.

On the 11th of December, Conan's "Great Marjorie" passed away at the age of 92. It wasn't a surprise, exactly: we knew her health was declining and she had started hospice care. But we all thought there was more time. I suppose that's a common phenomena, that the end comes more quickly than we expect. The picture above was taken just a few days prior to her passing; Conan was excited to show Great Marjorie his new balance bike, which was an early birthday gift. They had a great relationship, for which I am really grateful. Conan saw her nearly every Wednesday, and they shared a love of reading, a fascination with cats, and neither of them ever missed a chance for desert.

In addition to Marjorie's death, we also had to put down one of our cats. To most people, Marcellus was a big mean scary cat, but he had his loveable side too. He came to us as a few years back for a temporary stay while Cynthia (who had raised him from a kitten) finished graduate school. He had a serious weight problem and an eating disorder, but it quickly became clear that living with us really improved his health. We got an automatic catfood dispensor which helped prevent him from overeating, and he got a lot more excercise wandering our property than he had gotten as an indoor cat. He dropped from 24 lbs to 18 lbs, and really seemed to enjoy life with us.

Cary really bonded with Marcellus, and when Cynthia graduated and returned to Olympia we officially adopted Marcellus. This past year, however, his quality of life begin to deteriorate. He appeared to be in pain when he walked, and he was grouchier and meaner than usual. Conan was afraid of him. He took his last trip to the vet the day after Christmas, and is now buried in the yard near a spectaularly thorny shrub called a Poncirus Trifolata. It seemed a fitting marker for him.

Marjorie's memorial service was this past Saturday. Conan doesn't understand memorial services any more than he understands death. He misses both Marcellus and his Great Grandma, and has told me more than once that he wants them back. I told him that the memorial was "a party where everyone remembers Great Marjorie" and he asked me if she would be there. I had no answer for him. He still looks for Great Marjorie in her bedroom when we visit his grandparents house.

The memorial was held at the SGI Buddhist Activity Center in Bellingham. Marjorie wasn't a Buddhist (she told the hospice spiritual councillor that music was her religion) but Dave and Anita are active SGI Buddhists. The service was simple and lovely. There were many special rememberances of Marojorie, some chanting, and a ceremonial offering of incence for her spirit. Afterwards, Conan was very interested in a framed picture of Marjorie as a young woman, which was sitting in a place of honor on a small table next to a vase holding three yellow tulips. Worried that he would spill the flowers, I picked up the vase and held it for him, thinking he wanted to smell them. Instead, he gently kissed each blossom. It was a sweet and special moment, a perfect goodbye.

Despite (or perhaps because of) our losses we had a wonderful Christmas celebrated with both sides of the family, and a fun New Year's holiday with many great friends. We really have a lot to be grateful for in this life, no matter how short it may be. :)

Story Time: The Rotten Egg Incident

Bear with me, I feel the need to reminisce...

I was always a good kid. I never really got into defiance for the sake of defiance; I always wanted to follow the rules and loved the praise and approval I received for being such a good kid. Occasionally I was naughty, but mostly I was not the trouble maker. Which is why the Rotten Egg Incident is still such a sore spot for me: I was innocent, but I looked guilty as hell. And it was spectacular.

I was about eleven, maybe twelve years old. My cousins, Heather, Sadie and Jessica, had come to visit, and the next door neighbor kids, Jamie & Ben, were also over at our house playing. Heather was three years older than I, Sadie was my age, and Jess, Jamie and my brother Jon were two years younger than we were, with Ben a couple years behind them. We were having a grand time, playing around and in the pond, on a beautiful summer day, while our parents chatted in the shade.

Now, the pond at my parent's house is not huge, and it's not deep, but it is murky and the bottom is mucky, not nice at all for wading or swimming. In the center of the pond is a small island where wild ducks nest nearly every year. Exploring the island was the obvious thing for us to do when my dad produced a small boat for us to play with. Jon and Sadie ferried Heather and I over to the island, and then headed back to the shore to pick up Jamie, Jesse and Ben. There was a lot of silliness going on in the boat, and somehow both of the paddles were dropped overboard.

Meanwhile, Heather and I began to explore the island, which was very brushy. We pushed our way through the branches and came upon an old duck's nest in the lee of the biggest alder tree. It still had an egg in it! What a find! I picked it up, examined it, and held it up for everyone to see, yelling to the other kids "We found a duck egg!". And they yelled back "Throw it! Throw it!"

So I did. I hauled back and unquestioningly threw the duck egg.

Which hit the network of low-hanging alder branches and aerosolized into a fine mist of pure rotten-egg putrescence which enveloped all the kids, both in the boat and on the shore.

Now, as is often the case in these situations, I knew as soon as the egg left my hand that it was a mistake. I suddenly saw the kids on the shore holding a tow-rope tied to a weight, ready to throw to the kids in the boat who had lost their paddles overboard. In an instant it was crystal clear, but it was too late. Everyone was shrieking, crying, retching, adults were running from the yard to see what was happening, and there was a mind-boggling terrible stink in the air.

To everyone but Heather and I it seemed like a completely unprovoked biochemical sneak attack. We were stuck on the island for what seemed like hours, while the adults rescued, bathed, and comforted our siblings. I think they even got ice cream. We were told we could wade to shore through the now stinky muck water on our own. No-one wanted to hear my side of the story, because really, what possible excuse could there be for doing such a horrible, stupid, mean thing?

Eventually after all the other kids were cleaned up and settled down someone came and rescued us off the island, but despite my teary-eyed protestations I don't think anyone really believed me that it had been an accident. I mean really, when your story is that you accidentally threw a rotten duck egg right at all the other kids because they asked you to, well, that's a pretty hard explanation to sell. But it's true. I was innocent... and also guilty. And although it was terribly traumatic for everyone involved (especially me) it makes a pretty funny story now!

Birthday Story

Tomorrow is my birthday; I'll be 35 years old. Last night we had a bunch of friends over for a dinner party that was lots of fun. We're in the midst of a early-season nor'easter, with c-c-cold snowy winds blasting straight down from the Fraser valley, so I was impressed at the number of friends willing to make the drive over icy roads and celebrate with us. I really am blessed with a great group of friends.

It got me thinking back through the years, to other birthday celebrations. Some years I've had big parties, some years small gatherings, some years my birthday's an afterthought to Thanksgiving, and some years it is the the main event. There was the time - when I was 13 or 14 - when what I REALLY, really wanted (and got) for my birthday celebration was to take my two closest friends to a chanting workshop with some visiting Tibetan monks. (It was neat, if not particularly eventful.) Of course I'll never forget the year that I got an engagement ring from Cary for my birthday - that was a shock. I had no idea what he was planning, and he'd gone to the trouble to wrap it up inside a bunch of nesting boxes, with the outside one being a couple feet square. ("Oh, haha, the old box-inside-a-box trick" I said.) Opening that final box and seeing the ring is the only thing that has ever rendered me literally speechless.

Of all the years I've celebrated though, my favorite one was in my mid-twenties, when I was living at the Apple Farm. I can't say for certain what year it was, probably around 2000. It was one of those years where my birthday landed perilously close to Thanksgiving. My family was gathering to celebrate Thanksgiving at my Grandma Joy's house, so Cary and I drove out there around noon or so. We had a great meal, lots of visiting and catching up, and then a few presents for me, all very nice. Cary, however, kept checking the time and making it known that he really wanted to head back to the farm. He had some weak reason, I don't even remember what, about why he wanted to head home, but I knew he just didn't want to stay and visit longer with my family because he was a selfish jerk.

Eventually, I gave in, we said our goodbyes, got in the car and headed back home, and I let him have it. "I hardly ever get to see my family! We see your family all the time! It's not fair! You must not really understand/love/respect me if you can't spend time with my family without wanting to leave early!" etc. Cary took my increasingly hysterical rantings about his problems dealing with my family with characteristic stony silence, which only made me even more convinced that I was hitting right at the heart of the matter.

It's about a half-hour drive between Grandma Joy's house and the Apple Farm, and I kept at him the whole way home. I was merciless. I was going to make him SEE! I was right, and he needed to know it!

And then I walked into the house to find we were late for my surprise birthday party.

I don't remember much about the actual party (I'm pretty sure it thoroughly rocked), but I do remember apologizing to Cary and realizing - not for the first time, but perhaps more deeply than before - that he was a real keeper. Happy Birthday, me.

A year ago tonight

It was cold and clear, and the moon was full. Storms were forecast, the wind was picking up, and I was in labor. The last few weeks had seemed like an eternity, I really wanted my pregnancy to be over and my baby to be born. And finally, finally! it was time. My attendants bundled me up in heavy winter clothes, and sent me out walking with Cary to the end of the driveway and back. I remember how vivid the shadows cast by the bright moon were, and how cold the wind was in my face. We had to stop every few feet for a contraction. I think it took an hour or so, just to walk to the mailbox and back. It was absolutely surreal, a moment I'll never forget.

Rest In Peace, Uncle Pete

My Uncle Pete Christensen passed away last Saturday (my wedding day) after a long and eventful life. A benign family consipiracy kept the news from me until they day after the wedding, but even if I had known it would not have troubled me - I know for a fact that Pete was ready to move on and start a new journey, and there is no great sadness in that for me. He had been in failing health for some time, battling cancer, and although there is of course greif and a very real sense of loss aflicting those of us who knew and loved him, we all knew that the time was near and understand that death is simply a part of life. Yesterday I attended Pete's memorial service at his church in Wenatchee, and afterwards a family potluck in his honor, complete with Pete's favorite cookies: Scotch-a-roos (peanutbutter rice crispy squares with milk chocolate on top) and Snickerdoodles. We have such a great family!

The thing I will remember most about Pete is his sense of humor. Bawdy jokes and cards were his speciality. You could always count on getting two separate cards with any gift from Pete and Patty; she would pick out a nice, heartfelt one, and Pete would give an off-color or sometimes just plain ridiculously funny one. Even when the years started to weigh heavily on him, he always had that twinkle in his eye that let you know he was getting ready to tease a Norweigian (he was very proud of his Danish heritage) or to crack a joke.

Pete married my Aunt Patty (my Dad's sister) in 1981, so although he was only step-father to my cousins he was really my uncle; I don't have any memories of Patty's first husband. For most of my childhood I wasn't very curious about Pete's early life and experiences (16-year-old me: "Duh, boooorrring!") but luckily a few years ago I got a chance to get to know Pete better and listen to some of his stories. Pete was a pilot, amd during WWII he was a pilot instructor with the Army Air Corps and also served in the 7th Division Ferrying Group which flew airplanes from Montana to Alaska which were then transfered to the allied Russian airforce.

I spent just a few evenings (after dinner at family gatherings) chatting with Pete about his piloting and wartime experiences. He was a great storyteller. One of the last times I saw him at his house on Orchard Street (just before he and Patty moved into their condo) he showed me some pictures from those days, and I have to say he was a really sharp looking guy in his flight suit! :) He gave me a couple of his keepsakes: his parachute-silk pilot scarf, and a dashboard hula girl whose skirt flips up when you pull a string. I am really honored to have them both.

Most of Pete's wartime piloting stories include him getting into trouble for buzzing the tower or some such practical joking. He once buzzed some unsuspecting fishermen on Hood Canal, coming in so low to the water that both men jumped from their boat. He felt a little bad about scaring them that badly, once he stopped laughing. Ferrying planes to Alaska (and flying back) meant landing and refueling at many airfields along the way, both military and civilian. Pete loved to buzz the towers and otherwise lively-up the days of the airfield personell. He was a likeable guy, and when his charming personality failed to get him out of trouble he was ready with a bottle of whiskey or two to give to the miffed airfield managers by way of appology. He even managed to get into the good graces of the commanders of some airfields they weren't really supposed to land at, by means of always leaving a bottle behind.

Pete loved to socialize, and after his retirement in 1984 he and Patty traveled all over the US in an RV. Thanks to a geneology done by one of his Danish cousins he was able to locate a number of relatives in the US and western Canada, with whom he and Patty shared a lot of good times. Pete was active in his church too, even teaching Sunday School according to the program from his memorial service (I cannot imagine Pete as a Sunday School teacher!). He was a great guy, and he will be remembered fondly.

This memorial essay is dedicated to my Aunt Patty. I love you!

1 Year Ago Today...

I can't believe it's only been a year since we poured the footings. Here's a walk down memory lane, with my post from June 21, 2006...

The drainfield is built, inspected & approved! In the background you can just make out the house site. It's fair distance away, down what little slope we have on the property. The soil here is almost totally clay, so drainage can really be a problem. It took quite a while just to find a place on the property that was suitably percable to get a septic permit. But now here it is! Wonderful.



The septic tank itself is just off the southwest corner of the house. The excavator also dug out the foundation area, and the concrete guys got right in there and poured the footings, as you can see. These guys aren't wasting any time! In the background you can see the tank & drainfield.

Wow. I get all excited again (just like I was last summer) looking at these old pictures. We've come a loooooooong way!