1. It's not about you.
Rule #1 almost ended my first marriage before it began.
I was twenty-five, a second-year English teacher in a small, northeast Kansas town. I carried my heart on my sleeve and struggled with classroom discipline as many young teachers do. The students, after all, were only seven years younger than me, and many seniors had already kicked me around the previous year as juniors. The slippery slope of taking everything personally called like Homer's sirens.
When they misbehaved, I struggled. I raised my voice. I yelled. I made hollow threats and moved desks, sent students to the office for any provocation, and gave them plenty of ammunition to "stick it" to Mr. Polson. I did everything wrong--especially the amount of their baggage I decided to carry on my back. Everything became personal. Every voice out of compliance slapped me across the face; every touch of disrespect to anyone cut dagger-sharp into my gut.
I had it all wrong.
The truth comes easily after one's eyes open. All classroom discipline problems germinate from anger, frustration, and stress students carry into the room and/or baggage from home or their social lives. In my novice classroom, they translated that stress and baggage into rude comments, insults to me and other students, jeers and foolish acts and just about any other means to push my proverbial buttons, but none of it was personal. Stumbling at both life and teaching, I was the one who took everything personally, but it never started that way.
Back then, I didn't know. I was an easy target who didn't understand one of the most basic principles of living a good life.
I carried my frustration home and dumped all that inherited baggage on my fiance, Aimee. One day, she'd had enough. We went for a walk in a small, local arboretum, moonlight and stars playing on a pond. There, in the November chill with black lines of trees looking on, she gave me the ultimatum.
"Stop complaining about the students' behavior. Do something about it, but stop complaining. I don't want to marry someone who carries all their stuff home. It's not personal, you know."
I still remember those words. They crystallized in my brain. They tore at my heart. I'd already had one failed engagement, and now I felt the edge of this one slip beneath my feet. She hadn't uttered the sacred mantra of Rule #1, but her words came close. The meaning was there.
She could have easily said it: It's not about you.
Working on my classroom structure would take time. I couldn't fix student behavior or classroom environment overnight. But something did change inside me. Motivated by fear or love or a little of both, I sloughed away the baggage my students brought to class. No matter how wicked those students, their misbehaving really wasn't about me personally. A switch had been thrown deep inside and I would never be the same again in the classroom. Angry commands melted into patience and empathy. Demanding what I wanted morphed into quietly but consistently waiting for students to demonstrate compliance with my requests. Classroom expectations became clear. Over the years, it became easier for all of us, students and teacher alike.
It would be another eight years before Rule #1 formally came into my life, but I'd learned a lesson and learned it well.
Aimee and I were married the following summer, and Rule #1 helped me through the darkest parts of the journey ahead.
Showing posts with label memories of Aimee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories of Aimee. Show all posts
Monday, January 23, 2017
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Food is Love
I'm making köttbullar for some friends today--or meatballs as we'd say in English. The funny thing about these is that they are meat-less because the target audience lives a mostly meat-free life. How does one make meatless meatballs? With potatoes (from our family garden), ground almonds, and love.
I've used food as an "I love you" for a long time. I suppose I learned this from my mother--what with her always available chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter brownies, and various pies. During college, I never came home to an empty pan or cookie jar.
My first gift to Aimee, was a peach pie. We'd only been dating for about a month, so I didn't want to get weird or anything. She'd mentioned liking peach pie once. I made one and "sealed the deal." (her words, not mine) I baked scores of pies over the years--peach, strawberry rhubarb, chocolate peanut butter... Aimee's birthday became an occasion for pizza, a different kind of pie. When she turned thirty, I kneaded dough and baked for hours. By her fortieth, I'd learned a few tricks, but every pizza was still a work of my two hands.
When prepping food for friends, I always like to make it from scratch, just like my potato meat(less)balls. Food is special that way--something with effort and care put in that you can actually taste and feel.
Aimee helped plant this year's potato crop, and I'm happy to share this little miracle tubers with friends.
I've used food as an "I love you" for a long time. I suppose I learned this from my mother--what with her always available chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter brownies, and various pies. During college, I never came home to an empty pan or cookie jar.
My first gift to Aimee, was a peach pie. We'd only been dating for about a month, so I didn't want to get weird or anything. She'd mentioned liking peach pie once. I made one and "sealed the deal." (her words, not mine) I baked scores of pies over the years--peach, strawberry rhubarb, chocolate peanut butter... Aimee's birthday became an occasion for pizza, a different kind of pie. When she turned thirty, I kneaded dough and baked for hours. By her fortieth, I'd learned a few tricks, but every pizza was still a work of my two hands.
When prepping food for friends, I always like to make it from scratch, just like my potato meat(less)balls. Food is special that way--something with effort and care put in that you can actually taste and feel.
Aimee helped plant this year's potato crop, and I'm happy to share this little miracle tubers with friends.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Our Neighborhood has a Plentiful Lack of Front Porches
The new front porch/deck is "done." Done as in: you can walk on it, sit on the new furniture, jump up and down, and even lean on the railing. I still need to add railing near the front door (on the opposite side of the deck) and do a little landscape work, but right now it's too damn hot.
I wanted to build a porch/deck for two reasons:
1. Aimee always wanted a front porch.
2. This is my house now, and by God, I'll build a damn porch if I want.
Our neighborhood is relatively "porch" free. This saddens me. It's an older neighborhood (most houses built in the early '60s), but not old enough to be part of the grand American porch tradition. The lack of front porches is a sorry development in residential architecture. I'm thrilled to have one.
I remember moving into the neighborhood--how Aimee lamented not knowing the neighbors like those she did when she was a girl. Eleven years later, I know the neighbors (most of them), well. They were there when Aimee died, swooping in to clean up the house and take care of things.They've been there through many ups and downs for over a decade.
The porch/deck isn't much--but it's enough. I can listen to the rustle of leaves from my pin oak and fire maple. I can wave to the neighbors as they drive by. I can sit and remember good times with my wife and dream of good times to come.
I wanted to build a porch/deck for two reasons:
1. Aimee always wanted a front porch.
2. This is my house now, and by God, I'll build a damn porch if I want.
Our neighborhood is relatively "porch" free. This saddens me. It's an older neighborhood (most houses built in the early '60s), but not old enough to be part of the grand American porch tradition. The lack of front porches is a sorry development in residential architecture. I'm thrilled to have one.
I remember moving into the neighborhood--how Aimee lamented not knowing the neighbors like those she did when she was a girl. Eleven years later, I know the neighbors (most of them), well. They were there when Aimee died, swooping in to clean up the house and take care of things.They've been there through many ups and downs for over a decade.
The porch/deck isn't much--but it's enough. I can listen to the rustle of leaves from my pin oak and fire maple. I can wave to the neighbors as they drive by. I can sit and remember good times with my wife and dream of good times to come.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Our National Park Tradition
I feel another "significant" post brewing, but it will wait for another day. Today, I bring pictures from our recent trip to Rocky Mountain National Park and one of my favorite stories about Aimee.
National Parks were/are an obsession of ours--I still have our map of all National Parks hanging in the basement (with color-coded pins indicated which family member has been where). In 2000, Aimee and I took a road trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton. We camped for five nights--four of them in Yellowstone--and enjoyed all the sights. The view of the Tetons from Jackson Lake... spectacular. We rented a boat, a small craft with an outboard motor, and headed onto the lake. The boat's owner gave us a bit of advice which caused contention:
Stay within a mile of shore.
Of course, Aimee (being the adventurous type she was), aimed the boat for the mountains and gave it the gun. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gunnels.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Staying a mile away from shore like he said," she said.
"No. No. No." I glanced over my shoulder at the swelling waves. The tiny boat would easily capsize in the middle of Jackson Lake. "He said within a mile of shore."
She didn't agree, of course, but the look of sheer-animal-panic on my face convinced her to turn our ship around. Aimee and I weren't able to share enough National Park adventures before her death (could there ever be enough National Park adventures?), but the boys and I will keep going...
I hiked to Fern Lake early on Saturday morning, the date which would have been our 11th wedding anniversary. Aimee and I made the same hike on our 6th wedding anniversary (June 16, 2007), just over a year after Max was born. I was early enough to miss the crowd (it's a tough hike, but a popular one) and have some alone time with the lake, the trees, the mountains, and my thoughts.
Elliot was not impressed by the lack of oxygen above tree line.
Max, Owen, and I on top of the world. Okay, at least on top of a granite formation on Trail Ridge Road.
Max and Owen showed me how to scramble on the rocks near a waterfall. Going down was easier than up.
Owen, Elliot (in the stroller), and Max on the lookout for yellow bellied marmots. We always find marmots at the "alpine communities" stop on Trail Ridge Road.
Take care, and happy adventuring.
National Parks were/are an obsession of ours--I still have our map of all National Parks hanging in the basement (with color-coded pins indicated which family member has been where). In 2000, Aimee and I took a road trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton. We camped for five nights--four of them in Yellowstone--and enjoyed all the sights. The view of the Tetons from Jackson Lake... spectacular. We rented a boat, a small craft with an outboard motor, and headed onto the lake. The boat's owner gave us a bit of advice which caused contention:
Stay within a mile of shore.
Of course, Aimee (being the adventurous type she was), aimed the boat for the mountains and gave it the gun. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gunnels.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Staying a mile away from shore like he said," she said.
"No. No. No." I glanced over my shoulder at the swelling waves. The tiny boat would easily capsize in the middle of Jackson Lake. "He said within a mile of shore."
She didn't agree, of course, but the look of sheer-animal-panic on my face convinced her to turn our ship around. Aimee and I weren't able to share enough National Park adventures before her death (could there ever be enough National Park adventures?), but the boys and I will keep going...
I hiked to Fern Lake early on Saturday morning, the date which would have been our 11th wedding anniversary. Aimee and I made the same hike on our 6th wedding anniversary (June 16, 2007), just over a year after Max was born. I was early enough to miss the crowd (it's a tough hike, but a popular one) and have some alone time with the lake, the trees, the mountains, and my thoughts.
Elliot was not impressed by the lack of oxygen above tree line.
Max, Owen, and I on top of the world. Okay, at least on top of a granite formation on Trail Ridge Road.
Max and Owen showed me how to scramble on the rocks near a waterfall. Going down was easier than up.
Owen, Elliot (in the stroller), and Max on the lookout for yellow bellied marmots. We always find marmots at the "alpine communities" stop on Trail Ridge Road.
Take care, and happy adventuring.
Monday, May 21, 2012
On Being Powerless
Aimee's death has taught me a hard lesson about the nature of power:
I have none. Not where the universe is concerned, anyway.
What I can do, and really the only thing I can do, is choose how to live my life in the face of such horrific powerlessness. And it is horrific--no one, least of all Aimee Elizabeth Ziegler, should have suffered as she did. No one should die like she did. No little boys, innocent if a little precocious, should lose their mother. No husband should be forced to let his best friend go like this. No family should lose a loved one to a monster.
In the face of such horror, the path is not easy. I've never been a very religious man. Yes, I scored six consecutive years of perfect Sunday School attendance as a boy. Yes, I attend church weekly. I sit in the pew. I sing the songs. But it isn't the religion which moves me. Most of the time, I'm quite the agnostic. On my best days, I think there might just be a certain providence to the universe. On my worst... Well...
How can I make meaning of Aimee's life and death? She touched so many lives--as coach, counselor, friend, sister, scholarship hall director, residence hall assistant, classmate, teammate, daughter, mother, wife--in her life. No one who met Ziggs walked away without feeling her light. I could easily shake my fists at the sky and cry out, howl my most primal syllables, shout hate and anger at God for taking Aimee from us.
But somehow, impossibly, I find myself being thankful she spent thirteen years of her life in my presence. I find myself being thankful someone so wonderful walked with me and shared so much with the people she touched. I think of the alternative--never knowing Aimee at all--and realize, no matter how Aimee left us and how awful her suffering, my world would be a far paler place had she never lived at all. It's an awfully hard truth, but truth none the less.
We all must die someday. It has inspired much art, literature, and human history. We have no power to prevent our eventual deaths, no matter how we fight it with modern medicine and science. I will always hurt to think of how Aimee left the world, but I can still find joy that she was here--that she loved so many so well and helped the world be better.
How can we reconcile such beauty with such pain? How can life have meaning in the face of horrors? Sometimes, I wish the answer were easy. Other times, I acknowledge meaning is made in the midst of struggle, not in leisure and ease.
A friend recently told me, "And somewhere, on the other side of those clashing realities is a bigger truth, that few people are willing to look for, because it's such a painful journey."
How true. Oh God, the journey is painful. But there are joys, too, and meaning in the interplay of the two. But finding that meaning isn't an easy path--no, it is a "painful journey."
In the song "Poor Jerusalem" from Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus sings, "Neither you, Simon, nor the Fifty-Thousand... Understand what power is/Understand what glory is/Understand at all." This comes, if you aren't familiar with the show, just after Simon Zealotes exhorts Jesus to incite his mob of followers and overthrow Rome. Leave it to me to take a theological lesson from a '70s musical. (But a damn good one.)
Power isn't always what we think it is. Jesus finishes with the lines, "To conquer death, you only have to die," leaving Simon with a confused and troubled look on his face.
Here's one more thing I know:
Owen's soccer team lost a heartbreaking championship game on Saturday afternoon. They "outplayed" their opponents (many more shots on goal/time of possession), but with less than a minute left, the opposing team knocked in a sloppy shot, breaking a 1-1 tie. As Owen jogged across the field after coach's final speech, I gave him a big hug and merely said, "I'm proud of how hard you played."
We can't possibly "win" life. All we can do is play hard and give the best we have.
Yes, I'm powerless, but I can choose how I decide to live with my powerlessness.
I have none. Not where the universe is concerned, anyway.
What I can do, and really the only thing I can do, is choose how to live my life in the face of such horrific powerlessness. And it is horrific--no one, least of all Aimee Elizabeth Ziegler, should have suffered as she did. No one should die like she did. No little boys, innocent if a little precocious, should lose their mother. No husband should be forced to let his best friend go like this. No family should lose a loved one to a monster.
In the face of such horror, the path is not easy. I've never been a very religious man. Yes, I scored six consecutive years of perfect Sunday School attendance as a boy. Yes, I attend church weekly. I sit in the pew. I sing the songs. But it isn't the religion which moves me. Most of the time, I'm quite the agnostic. On my best days, I think there might just be a certain providence to the universe. On my worst... Well...
How can I make meaning of Aimee's life and death? She touched so many lives--as coach, counselor, friend, sister, scholarship hall director, residence hall assistant, classmate, teammate, daughter, mother, wife--in her life. No one who met Ziggs walked away without feeling her light. I could easily shake my fists at the sky and cry out, howl my most primal syllables, shout hate and anger at God for taking Aimee from us.
But somehow, impossibly, I find myself being thankful she spent thirteen years of her life in my presence. I find myself being thankful someone so wonderful walked with me and shared so much with the people she touched. I think of the alternative--never knowing Aimee at all--and realize, no matter how Aimee left us and how awful her suffering, my world would be a far paler place had she never lived at all. It's an awfully hard truth, but truth none the less.
We all must die someday. It has inspired much art, literature, and human history. We have no power to prevent our eventual deaths, no matter how we fight it with modern medicine and science. I will always hurt to think of how Aimee left the world, but I can still find joy that she was here--that she loved so many so well and helped the world be better.
How can we reconcile such beauty with such pain? How can life have meaning in the face of horrors? Sometimes, I wish the answer were easy. Other times, I acknowledge meaning is made in the midst of struggle, not in leisure and ease.
A friend recently told me, "And somewhere, on the other side of those clashing realities is a bigger truth, that few people are willing to look for, because it's such a painful journey."
How true. Oh God, the journey is painful. But there are joys, too, and meaning in the interplay of the two. But finding that meaning isn't an easy path--no, it is a "painful journey."
In the song "Poor Jerusalem" from Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus sings, "Neither you, Simon, nor the Fifty-Thousand... Understand what power is/Understand what glory is/Understand at all." This comes, if you aren't familiar with the show, just after Simon Zealotes exhorts Jesus to incite his mob of followers and overthrow Rome. Leave it to me to take a theological lesson from a '70s musical. (But a damn good one.)
Power isn't always what we think it is. Jesus finishes with the lines, "To conquer death, you only have to die," leaving Simon with a confused and troubled look on his face.
Here's one more thing I know:
Owen's soccer team lost a heartbreaking championship game on Saturday afternoon. They "outplayed" their opponents (many more shots on goal/time of possession), but with less than a minute left, the opposing team knocked in a sloppy shot, breaking a 1-1 tie. As Owen jogged across the field after coach's final speech, I gave him a big hug and merely said, "I'm proud of how hard you played."
We can't possibly "win" life. All we can do is play hard and give the best we have.
Yes, I'm powerless, but I can choose how I decide to live with my powerlessness.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Big Things, Little Things
A van from Nebraska Furniture Mart delivered what has come to be known as "the big brown couch" yesterday. Back in early March, Aimee, the boys, our good friend John and I spent a day at NFM shopping for just the right furniture for our remodeled basement.
Aimee said, "I want a couch we can all sit on together." The picture can't do this leviathan justice:
The forced perspective (I had to stand on the stairs to capture the whole monster) makes the ottoman look tiny--it isn't. The couch measures 11' x 8'. Yes, it's huge. A true mammoth. In Max's words, "Thank goodness it comes in pieces." Yes, Max. Thank goodness.
I had a moment of pause when I first sat on the couch. Aimee's words came to me--"I want a couch we can all sit on together."
Yesterday, I cleaned my classroom and found some CDs which I'd stashed in my desk years ago. One of them was Under the Table and Dreaming by Dave Matthews Band. Aimee and I went to a DMB concert back in '99. I still remember what she wore. I listened on the way home while Max munched a fruit by the foot and napped.
These little moments give me pause, a little lump in my throat. Despite the sadness, I've learned to be thankful for good memories. I'm so thankful for all the wonderful memories I shared with Aimee.
*yes, the walls do look bare. I've ordered several vintage movie posters to frame and hang about the room... Clockwork Orange, Vertigo, Star Wars (that one's for me and the boys), The Haunting (1963), The Black Cat (1934)... It'll be good.
Aimee said, "I want a couch we can all sit on together." The picture can't do this leviathan justice:
The forced perspective (I had to stand on the stairs to capture the whole monster) makes the ottoman look tiny--it isn't. The couch measures 11' x 8'. Yes, it's huge. A true mammoth. In Max's words, "Thank goodness it comes in pieces." Yes, Max. Thank goodness.
I had a moment of pause when I first sat on the couch. Aimee's words came to me--"I want a couch we can all sit on together."
Yesterday, I cleaned my classroom and found some CDs which I'd stashed in my desk years ago. One of them was Under the Table and Dreaming by Dave Matthews Band. Aimee and I went to a DMB concert back in '99. I still remember what she wore. I listened on the way home while Max munched a fruit by the foot and napped.
These little moments give me pause, a little lump in my throat. Despite the sadness, I've learned to be thankful for good memories. I'm so thankful for all the wonderful memories I shared with Aimee.
*yes, the walls do look bare. I've ordered several vintage movie posters to frame and hang about the room... Clockwork Orange, Vertigo, Star Wars (that one's for me and the boys), The Haunting (1963), The Black Cat (1934)... It'll be good.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Hope is the Thing with Feathers; It's Also a Verb
I'm not a huge Emily Dickinson fan, but I do like image from "Hope is the Thing with Feathers"--hope brought to life as a bird. Hope is also an action, something we, as humans, can do. Something we should do.
In graduate school, I was fortunate enough to enroll in a course titled "Positive Psychology". The first lesson: most of the historical study of psychology has been focused on finding what's wrong with a person rather than what is right. Positive psychology turns the focus to what is right with a person--protective factors and strengths one might possess, just as a physically healthy person might be able to run several miles or compete at a high level in a given sport. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses--positive psychology attempts to recognize strengths. Hope is one of those strengths.
Research studies have shown hope can help you lead a healthy, fulfilled life. Hopeful college students are more likely to obtain degrees. Hopeful public school students are more likely to score high marks and graduate at the top of their classes. I didn't need a class to explain what I knew at the core of my being--hope can pull you through some hard times.
Hope consists of agency and pathways, the willpower and the waypower to make something happen. Hopeful people have the energy--agency--and can find ways--pathways--to make their dreams real.
Aimee's death has knocked me down, hard. Once, I hoped for a family and a long, happy life with the vibrant young woman I met in front of the post office. When Aimee was sick, that same hope pulled me through, helped me do what I could to take care of her. She lived life with hope--hope for me, for the boys, for her friends and family. I'd like to think she never gave up hope. I proud of the way we fought together, and no illness can tarnish my cherished memories.
I'm slowly building hope again--hope for my boys, our future, our family, my future... Things I never imagined putting together without Aimee. I also have hope for her legacy and memory. She spread so much hope and love, it can't help but continue.
Hope is a special kind of inoculation; it can't take away Aimee's death or her illness, but it can help with the way forward. I know Aimee would want us all to continue with as much hope as we can muster.
In graduate school, I was fortunate enough to enroll in a course titled "Positive Psychology". The first lesson: most of the historical study of psychology has been focused on finding what's wrong with a person rather than what is right. Positive psychology turns the focus to what is right with a person--protective factors and strengths one might possess, just as a physically healthy person might be able to run several miles or compete at a high level in a given sport. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses--positive psychology attempts to recognize strengths. Hope is one of those strengths.
Research studies have shown hope can help you lead a healthy, fulfilled life. Hopeful college students are more likely to obtain degrees. Hopeful public school students are more likely to score high marks and graduate at the top of their classes. I didn't need a class to explain what I knew at the core of my being--hope can pull you through some hard times.
Hope consists of agency and pathways, the willpower and the waypower to make something happen. Hopeful people have the energy--agency--and can find ways--pathways--to make their dreams real.
Aimee's death has knocked me down, hard. Once, I hoped for a family and a long, happy life with the vibrant young woman I met in front of the post office. When Aimee was sick, that same hope pulled me through, helped me do what I could to take care of her. She lived life with hope--hope for me, for the boys, for her friends and family. I'd like to think she never gave up hope. I proud of the way we fought together, and no illness can tarnish my cherished memories.
I'm slowly building hope again--hope for my boys, our future, our family, my future... Things I never imagined putting together without Aimee. I also have hope for her legacy and memory. She spread so much hope and love, it can't help but continue.
Hope is a special kind of inoculation; it can't take away Aimee's death or her illness, but it can help with the way forward. I know Aimee would want us all to continue with as much hope as we can muster.
Monday, May 14, 2012
The Road Less Traveled
Aimee and I enjoyed hiking--especially in National Parks. Our National Park map still hangs in our basement, framed and laminated with colorful push pins for each member of the family. The pins indicate where we've been.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
And that was Aimee's life as I knew her. She never took the easy path--helping start a grant-funded mental health program for kids in local schools, coaching high school sports (and later her sons in soccer and basketball), spending a week each summer at Anytown (a diversity/leadership camp for teens). She even listened to all of my crazy dreams and laughed when she found scraps of paper scribbled with story ideas.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Crushing Stigmas, Smashing Stereotypes, Remembering with Courage
This is the big one. It's been brewing for a while.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
A Brief History of Sunflowers
A couple of pictures from the vault today: the first Aimee and I took with sunflowers nearly thirteen years ago.
Aimee surrounded by the yellow blooms wearing her Sunflower Bike Shop t-shirt. How appropriate.
Yes, that's me, baby face and all, sniffing a sunflower. Look how non-grey my hair was back then. And no, sunflowers don't really have a lovely flower fragrance. To take the picture, Aimee asked me to climb a little mound and stand in the middle of the flowers. I paid for my compliance with tiny cuts and hives on my arms and legs. She framed my picture (the one above) and kept it on her nightstand until the day she died.
After that first adventure, we took family photos with sunflowers each year. Usually, we'd pose with random "dirt mound" flowers--the small ones from the pictures above which litter Kansas in late summer. A few times we found commercial fields of sunflowers, the big, fat-headed blooms harvested for seeds or floral arrangements. Sunflowers are stubborn plants, and the wild ones crop up anywhere they can find open soil.
Sunflowers held special meaning for us. I painted an arrangement of sunflowers for Aimee's wedding gift. When we honeymooned in Ireland and I started feeling a little homesick, Aimee found a flower shop in Cork and bought me a sunflower. The boys and I made her a triptych of flowers one year for Mothers' Day.
We'll take a family photo this fall, the boys and I in a cluster of yellow, and share memories of sunflowers past.
Yes, that's me, baby face and all, sniffing a sunflower. Look how non-grey my hair was back then. And no, sunflowers don't really have a lovely flower fragrance. To take the picture, Aimee asked me to climb a little mound and stand in the middle of the flowers. I paid for my compliance with tiny cuts and hives on my arms and legs. She framed my picture (the one above) and kept it on her nightstand until the day she died.
After that first adventure, we took family photos with sunflowers each year. Usually, we'd pose with random "dirt mound" flowers--the small ones from the pictures above which litter Kansas in late summer. A few times we found commercial fields of sunflowers, the big, fat-headed blooms harvested for seeds or floral arrangements. Sunflowers are stubborn plants, and the wild ones crop up anywhere they can find open soil.
Sunflowers held special meaning for us. I painted an arrangement of sunflowers for Aimee's wedding gift. When we honeymooned in Ireland and I started feeling a little homesick, Aimee found a flower shop in Cork and bought me a sunflower. The boys and I made her a triptych of flowers one year for Mothers' Day.
We'll take a family photo this fall, the boys and I in a cluster of yellow, and share memories of sunflowers past.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
(Life) Revisions
The morning of Aimee's death, when the sheriff's deputies were asking questions as part of their investigation, I found myself making verbal revisions, shifting from present tense to past tense automatically. I'd say something like: "She wears--wore--these shoes all the time." My brain had begun the hard work of understanding the world without my sweet, sweet wife.
I stumbled through that awful day with too many verbal revisions. Aimee is gone. Aimee did those things in the past.
At night, after the boys are in bed and when I do most of my private grieving, I sometimes have little breakthroughs. Last week, when thinking about all the things she won't do anymore, I realized I don't have to say "I loved Aimee." This isn't a necessary revision--I still love her in the present tense, just as I still love my father even though he's been gone for nearly 23 years. If grief is the cost of loving, at least love doesn't have an expiration date.
Yesterday was Max's birthday. I struggled; I spilled over with tears and frustration and all sorts of awful heartache after the boys went to bed. I miss Aimee--again in the present tense--and love her dearly. The way I love her has changed, but not the love itself.
And that, even in the blackest moments, keeps me going right now.
Another revision I should mention:
The "buzz bomb" from my "Culture Clash" post was actually called an "Overlord". Thanks to Janae for setting the record straight.
It still was less than spectacular. (Sorry, Jason)
I stumbled through that awful day with too many verbal revisions. Aimee is gone. Aimee did those things in the past.
At night, after the boys are in bed and when I do most of my private grieving, I sometimes have little breakthroughs. Last week, when thinking about all the things she won't do anymore, I realized I don't have to say "I loved Aimee." This isn't a necessary revision--I still love her in the present tense, just as I still love my father even though he's been gone for nearly 23 years. If grief is the cost of loving, at least love doesn't have an expiration date.
Yesterday was Max's birthday. I struggled; I spilled over with tears and frustration and all sorts of awful heartache after the boys went to bed. I miss Aimee--again in the present tense--and love her dearly. The way I love her has changed, but not the love itself.
And that, even in the blackest moments, keeps me going right now.
...
Another revision I should mention:
The "buzz bomb" from my "Culture Clash" post was actually called an "Overlord". Thanks to Janae for setting the record straight.
It still was less than spectacular. (Sorry, Jason)
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Stepping Through
How do you talk about death with your kids, especially if their mother--mommy--died?
I've wrestled with this quite a bit lately. The boys are doing okay, but I don't want to completely shelter them from their feelings. I don't want to hide my grieving, either, because they need to know it's okay to cry and be angry and sad and...
Aunt Heather loaned me a few books about death/children the other day, one of them being a parable about water bugs and dragonflies. You can find a copy on Amazon or simply read the parable for free online. It's a nice story, and one which I hope reflects how the universe really works. Of course, I have no idea how the universe really works. I wish I did.
Those of you who know me well know how much "existential questioning" I do. Now that Aimee is gone, those questions are heavier. They really pull at me, especially at night when I'm trying to go to sleep or wake up at four AM expecting to hear Elliot (and don't--that kid is a world-champ sleeper).
Last night, I thought of a story I'd written several years ago, "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". It's still one of my favorite stories, originally published at A Fly in Amber and reprinted (in slightly different form) in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow--
I like the way it reads at A Fly in Amber... No explanation of what is beyond the doors. That's where I am right now: on one side of the door. Aimee has stepped through and I can't follow. Not yet. I've got more murals to paint before I join her... Too many to count.
And yes, that is a metaphor from the story.
I frame my world with metaphors.
When I wrote the "The World in Rubber..." I wasn't thinking about death. But it works. It fits perfectly how I feel right now.
I miss you, Ziggs.
I've wrestled with this quite a bit lately. The boys are doing okay, but I don't want to completely shelter them from their feelings. I don't want to hide my grieving, either, because they need to know it's okay to cry and be angry and sad and...
Aunt Heather loaned me a few books about death/children the other day, one of them being a parable about water bugs and dragonflies. You can find a copy on Amazon or simply read the parable for free online. It's a nice story, and one which I hope reflects how the universe really works. Of course, I have no idea how the universe really works. I wish I did.
Those of you who know me well know how much "existential questioning" I do. Now that Aimee is gone, those questions are heavier. They really pull at me, especially at night when I'm trying to go to sleep or wake up at four AM expecting to hear Elliot (and don't--that kid is a world-champ sleeper).
Last night, I thought of a story I'd written several years ago, "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". It's still one of my favorite stories, originally published at A Fly in Amber and reprinted (in slightly different form) in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow--
I like the way it reads at A Fly in Amber... No explanation of what is beyond the doors. That's where I am right now: on one side of the door. Aimee has stepped through and I can't follow. Not yet. I've got more murals to paint before I join her... Too many to count.
And yes, that is a metaphor from the story.
I frame my world with metaphors.
When I wrote the "The World in Rubber..." I wasn't thinking about death. But it works. It fits perfectly how I feel right now.
I miss you, Ziggs.
(a woodcut of a dragonfly from UK artist Christine Howes)
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
This is Going to Leave a Mark
I wear several physical reminders of past wounds--most of them on my face. Spots under my nose and on my chin show where asphalt dug deep during a biking accident my freshman year in college. The same wreck left a jagged line in my right eyebrow. I can tongue the lump inside my left cheek where I had stitches in fourth grade (after a well-placed kick pressed soft cheek flesh into my teeth and the pool clouded red with mouth blood). There's a small divot under my chin where I landed chin-first after jumping from a mattress when I was four.
Even my collarbone is crooked, broken when I was born.
Aimee, while having several sinus surgeries in the time I knew her, carried most scars in silence--or defiance. She had near-constant back pain from an accident in college. She developed neuropathy in her right wrist while clicking away on a mouse as a counselor at Free State. None of these things slowed her down. Aimee was stubborn--defiant--and bold. She thought she could conquer anything.
She always climbed into the middle of mountain streams to sit on a rock during our many hikes. I always told her to be careful--worried she would slip and fall on the smooth, mossy rocks. She never did.
And I was the one with scars... Funny how life works.
I have new scars now, the kind which don't show on my face. Aimee left them, and I won't trade them for anything.
For the multimedia inclined, take this message to heart:
It's always good to see young people taking an interest in danger. Now a lot of people are going to be telling you you're crazy, and maybe they're right. But the fact of the matter is: Bones heal. Chicks dig scars. And the United States of America has the best doctor-to-daredevil ratio in the world! --
...upon hearing that Bart wants to do a dangerous stunt, ``Bart the Daredevil''
Even my collarbone is crooked, broken when I was born.
Aimee, while having several sinus surgeries in the time I knew her, carried most scars in silence--or defiance. She had near-constant back pain from an accident in college. She developed neuropathy in her right wrist while clicking away on a mouse as a counselor at Free State. None of these things slowed her down. Aimee was stubborn--defiant--and bold. She thought she could conquer anything.
She always climbed into the middle of mountain streams to sit on a rock during our many hikes. I always told her to be careful--worried she would slip and fall on the smooth, mossy rocks. She never did.
And I was the one with scars... Funny how life works.
I have new scars now, the kind which don't show on my face. Aimee left them, and I won't trade them for anything.
For the multimedia inclined, take this message to heart:
To conclude, in the immortal words of Captain Lance Murdoch (from The Simpsons)"
It's always good to see young people taking an interest in danger. Now a lot of people are going to be telling you you're crazy, and maybe they're right. But the fact of the matter is: Bones heal. Chicks dig scars. And the United States of America has the best doctor-to-daredevil ratio in the world! --
...upon hearing that Bart wants to do a dangerous stunt, ``Bart the Daredevil''
Monday, April 23, 2012
This... Sucks
Yesterday, I was doing okay until I staggered into a whole field of "grief landmines". More like I'd been dropped into the middle of the field with a ill-made map.
It all started with the rocking chair in Elliot's room. Made of solid wood by gnomes in upstate Vermont (or handcrafted in a factory... I forget which), it's a beautiful piece of furniture, one which Aimee and I agonized over for hours and several stops at furniture stores before Owen was born. We talked about sitting in it on the porch when we were old and grey... and eventually passing it on to our kids.
That's the part that stuck in my chest: "old and grey." Aimee and I had a lot of plans for being old and grey together--she made me promise to stroke her hair when she was an old lady.
I've been robbed of the chance to fulfill my promise.
And that sucks. Hard.
Friends and family keep asking me how I'm doing. Okay. Awful. Okay again. It comes and goes.
I'm scared.
Confused.
Lonely in a crowd.
And scared some more.
But I'm not ashamed of sharing. Aimee never was--I valued her honesty as much as any other piece of her, and I'm not about to dishonor her memory by clamming up.
Write hard?
Yes. And live hard, too.
It all started with the rocking chair in Elliot's room. Made of solid wood by gnomes in upstate Vermont (or handcrafted in a factory... I forget which), it's a beautiful piece of furniture, one which Aimee and I agonized over for hours and several stops at furniture stores before Owen was born. We talked about sitting in it on the porch when we were old and grey... and eventually passing it on to our kids.
That's the part that stuck in my chest: "old and grey." Aimee and I had a lot of plans for being old and grey together--she made me promise to stroke her hair when she was an old lady.
I've been robbed of the chance to fulfill my promise.
And that sucks. Hard.
Friends and family keep asking me how I'm doing. Okay. Awful. Okay again. It comes and goes.
I'm scared.
Confused.
Lonely in a crowd.
And scared some more.
But I'm not ashamed of sharing. Aimee never was--I valued her honesty as much as any other piece of her, and I'm not about to dishonor her memory by clamming up.
Write hard?
Yes. And live hard, too.
Friday, April 20, 2012
4/20, or "That Holiday"
If you don't know about 4/20, I'll steer you to a rather "weasel-word" free article at Wikipedia.
This is a quickie from my Aimee files:
Once, while working as a WRAP social worker at Free State High School, Aimee spoke with an intoxicated student in her office on April 20th. The kid's rationale for showing up to school drunk rather stoned (as one who would celebrate 4/20 might be expected to celebrate)?
"I was afraid I'd get in trouble for being high at school."
Right. Good thinking kid. Drunk was a much better choice.
She proceeded to vomit in the middle of Aimee's office.
We had some laughs about that one. Big, hearty laughs.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
On Laughter
Aimee's laughter, as many friends and family have shared, didn't just tumble from her mouth. It exploded. I've seen her drop to the floor laughing, like when she received in the mail a certain bridesmaid dress with a rather large "ass bow" on the rear. Her laughter infected everyone in the room.
We shared many private laughs, too, many laughs late at night or early in the morning, laughs to heal hurts and lift each other when life sucked.
While discussing The Things They Carried the other day, a student shared a memory which in turn sparked an Aimee memory--these little grief land mines are everywhere these days. I remembered Thanksgiving eve 1999. Coaching duties at Free State High School prevented Aimee from going home to St. Louis for the holiday, so we visited my aunt and uncle in Kansas City. On the eve, we dined at Panda Garden (still my favorite Chinese-American in Larryville), and crashed in her bed later, telling stupid stories and laughing for hours.
She had a way with the kids, too, especially when they were little. Aimee made all our babies spew fiery little baby giggles. She taught us all to lay on the floor, heads resting on each-others' laps, and laugh. (One you should try, folks. Sounds nutty, but it works.)
I still laugh, and I will keep laughing. But it stings a little. It feels hollow and cheap like the ringing of an ill-made bell. I don't know if it's exactly guilt I feel, or something else. I miss Aimee's falling-down and rolling around laughter, but I'm thankful for such rich memories.
We shared many private laughs, too, many laughs late at night or early in the morning, laughs to heal hurts and lift each other when life sucked.
While discussing The Things They Carried the other day, a student shared a memory which in turn sparked an Aimee memory--these little grief land mines are everywhere these days. I remembered Thanksgiving eve 1999. Coaching duties at Free State High School prevented Aimee from going home to St. Louis for the holiday, so we visited my aunt and uncle in Kansas City. On the eve, we dined at Panda Garden (still my favorite Chinese-American in Larryville), and crashed in her bed later, telling stupid stories and laughing for hours.
She had a way with the kids, too, especially when they were little. Aimee made all our babies spew fiery little baby giggles. She taught us all to lay on the floor, heads resting on each-others' laps, and laugh. (One you should try, folks. Sounds nutty, but it works.)
I still laugh, and I will keep laughing. But it stings a little. It feels hollow and cheap like the ringing of an ill-made bell. I don't know if it's exactly guilt I feel, or something else. I miss Aimee's falling-down and rolling around laughter, but I'm thankful for such rich memories.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Culture Clash
Since my early childhood, I've held the 4th of July close to my heart. Most boys I know did--who couldn't love a holiday which encouraged the use of explosives?
My detonations took place in small town America: Clay Center, KS, population just shy of five thousand. Aimee was from a different world--St. Louis, MO, population a whole helluva lot more.
Aimee made her first trip to Clay Center for the 4th in 1999. I treated her to the deliberately-paced (slow) spectacle (meaning non-spectacle) that was Clay Center's 4th celebration. We parked with old high school buddies in a grocery store lot, the same store where those buddies and I worked in our formative years. The city fireworks display launched above the football stadium about 1/4 mile away. After the "show" we lit our own fireworks. Jason bragged about the prowess of the buzz bomb, and then heartily defended the buzz bombs of his youth when the 1999 version sputtered and we all laughed--especially Aimee with that deep, soul-shaking laugh of hers. She spoke of the V.P. Fair in St. Louis, but never to degrade our small town experience. She had a gift that way. Even as one friend snuggled with his fiancée in the bed of a pick-up truck to Cinderella's "You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone," she simply said, "That's when I knew I was in small town America."
God knows how easy it was to mock Clay Center 4ths...
We started traveling to Belle Plaine, KS, for the 4th in 2002. Aaron, another high school bud, lives in the open country south of Wichita. Out there, surrounded by well-irrigated corn fields, we can detonate everything we want--and often do. Aimee trooped along, year after year, and finally came to enjoy (I hope), the slower pace and free-wheeling attitude of small town celebrations. All the gunpowder in the world can't mask the simple fact that the 4th of July is really about friends and family. My boys have grown up with Aaron and Jason's kids, splashing in mud puddles, having water gun fights, and finally starting to launch their own fireworks as they've grown older. I told Aimee we'd try and get the crew to go to St. Louis for the V.P. Fair one year. We haven't made it, yet.
I'll head back to Belle Plaine to hang out with Aaron and Jason this year. I'll bring my boys, and they'll run and play with the other kids. I'll go to sleep, alone, in a borrowed bed and wish Aimee was there to enjoy every small town moment of it.
Holidays are going to be hard.
My detonations took place in small town America: Clay Center, KS, population just shy of five thousand. Aimee was from a different world--St. Louis, MO, population a whole helluva lot more.
Aimee made her first trip to Clay Center for the 4th in 1999. I treated her to the deliberately-paced (slow) spectacle (meaning non-spectacle) that was Clay Center's 4th celebration. We parked with old high school buddies in a grocery store lot, the same store where those buddies and I worked in our formative years. The city fireworks display launched above the football stadium about 1/4 mile away. After the "show" we lit our own fireworks. Jason bragged about the prowess of the buzz bomb, and then heartily defended the buzz bombs of his youth when the 1999 version sputtered and we all laughed--especially Aimee with that deep, soul-shaking laugh of hers. She spoke of the V.P. Fair in St. Louis, but never to degrade our small town experience. She had a gift that way. Even as one friend snuggled with his fiancée in the bed of a pick-up truck to Cinderella's "You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone," she simply said, "That's when I knew I was in small town America."
God knows how easy it was to mock Clay Center 4ths...
We started traveling to Belle Plaine, KS, for the 4th in 2002. Aaron, another high school bud, lives in the open country south of Wichita. Out there, surrounded by well-irrigated corn fields, we can detonate everything we want--and often do. Aimee trooped along, year after year, and finally came to enjoy (I hope), the slower pace and free-wheeling attitude of small town celebrations. All the gunpowder in the world can't mask the simple fact that the 4th of July is really about friends and family. My boys have grown up with Aaron and Jason's kids, splashing in mud puddles, having water gun fights, and finally starting to launch their own fireworks as they've grown older. I told Aimee we'd try and get the crew to go to St. Louis for the V.P. Fair one year. We haven't made it, yet.
I'll head back to Belle Plaine to hang out with Aaron and Jason this year. I'll bring my boys, and they'll run and play with the other kids. I'll go to sleep, alone, in a borrowed bed and wish Aimee was there to enjoy every small town moment of it.
Holidays are going to be hard.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Alpha Pizza, Omega Pizza
On our first "real" date, Aimee and I shared a pizza at Rudy's Pizzeria. On the night before she died, we had another Rudy's pizza with our boys. Our alpha and omega.
Aimee loved Rudy's--she loved pizza in just about any form. On many trips to St. Louis, we would stop at Shakespeare's Pizza in Columbia, one of her favorite undergrad hangouts. No trip home was complete without ordering Imo's--ultra-thin crust "St. Louis Style" pizza. We still have three bottles of Imo's Italian dressing in our pantry.
But Rudy's was our alpha and omega. Our first and last.
I remember so many firsts with Aimee. The first movie we saw in the theater was The Waterboy. (Yes, I'm a little embarrassed to admit it.) Our first bar hop was to the non-defunct Cabaret in Kansas City. The first trip we took together was a midnight escape to Booneville, Missouri. Yes, Booneville. (We drew it out of a hat). We scared some poor Best Western clerk when asking for a room at 2:00 AM and hiked Missouri's Katy Trail the next day.
I remember the first time I said "I love you" in the kitchen of the 1220 House, a rental on Rhode Island Street in Lawrence she shared with Steve and Erika. I remember the first time we kissed, rather old-fashioned like, on the porch of that same house after a date.
The firsts are easy to remember. The lasts, not as much. I never planned on any of them being the "last."
It's a call to appreciate as many moments as we can. Have a good Thursday. Live big.
Aimee loved Rudy's--she loved pizza in just about any form. On many trips to St. Louis, we would stop at Shakespeare's Pizza in Columbia, one of her favorite undergrad hangouts. No trip home was complete without ordering Imo's--ultra-thin crust "St. Louis Style" pizza. We still have three bottles of Imo's Italian dressing in our pantry.
But Rudy's was our alpha and omega. Our first and last.
I remember so many firsts with Aimee. The first movie we saw in the theater was The Waterboy. (Yes, I'm a little embarrassed to admit it.) Our first bar hop was to the non-defunct Cabaret in Kansas City. The first trip we took together was a midnight escape to Booneville, Missouri. Yes, Booneville. (We drew it out of a hat). We scared some poor Best Western clerk when asking for a room at 2:00 AM and hiked Missouri's Katy Trail the next day.
I remember the first time I said "I love you" in the kitchen of the 1220 House, a rental on Rhode Island Street in Lawrence she shared with Steve and Erika. I remember the first time we kissed, rather old-fashioned like, on the porch of that same house after a date.
The firsts are easy to remember. The lasts, not as much. I never planned on any of them being the "last."
It's a call to appreciate as many moments as we can. Have a good Thursday. Live big.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
National Post Office Day
This is how I met my wife, a story I've told many times but never committed to paper (or pixels).
During the fall and winter of 1998/99, I worked at an entertainment store as the book department manager. I'll stop short of calling it an actual bookstore, but with the closing of Borders, Hastings is now the biggest store which sells books in Lawrence. Spend one holiday shopping season in retail and you'll want to run away--far away. Sometime in mid-November, we hired seasonal employees to help with the crush of customers.
No, Aimee wasn't a seasonal hire, but her roommate Steve was. He thought I was cute. And nice. And gay...
After sorting out a few personal details (like the fact I wasn't playing for Steve's team, a matter I tried to explain with the best tact I could muster at twenty-three), he decided (reluctantly--still holding out hope, I guess) he should introduce me to Aimee. Several friends of Steve & Aimee's concurred, including a college buddy who was visiting from Chicago one fateful Tuesday in December.
I'd moved to Lawrence that summer to be with another woman... one who promptly kicked me to the curb for a short* guy with a beard who looked a little like her father**. That, I suppose, could make another interesting tale. Since the messy breakup, I'd kept odd hours. Let's blame it on a wonky retail work schedule, okay? Wonky enough I found myself at the Vermont Street post office at eleven P.M. on Tuesday, December 8th, 1998. What kind of a weirdo goes to the post at night?
Me. I still do it from time to time.
After slipping my package in the appropriate slot, I stepped out of the building for my car, and who should be passing on the street but Steve. And who was in his passenger seat? Aimee.They'd just returned to Lawrence after dropping that mutual friend from Chicago at Kansas City International Airport, the only "international" airport I've ever known with no direct international flights.
My first impression of my future wife? She was short***. Very short despite standing nearly 5'10". See, Steve drove a red Honda Civic hatchback, the kind they haven't made for years. Aimee coached basketball for Free State High School in those days, and, wearing sweats and a hat, didn't want to be seen so she scrunched down in the seat. Steve pulled over--much to Aimee's horror--and invited me to a holiday party at their place that weekend.
Ever since that day, Aimee and I celebrated the second Tuesday in December as National Post Office Day, they day she tried not to be seen and I imagined she was about 5'2".
Ever since that day, Tuesdays have been a special day. Have a good one.
* Okay, when you're 6'3" (like I am), most people are "shorter" than you. This is not a dig.
** Well, more like her dad than I do, anyway. Sorry if my talons are too sharp. Feeling a little "raw" right now.
*** See, there I go again. 6'3" man. 6'3".
During the fall and winter of 1998/99, I worked at an entertainment store as the book department manager. I'll stop short of calling it an actual bookstore, but with the closing of Borders, Hastings is now the biggest store which sells books in Lawrence. Spend one holiday shopping season in retail and you'll want to run away--far away. Sometime in mid-November, we hired seasonal employees to help with the crush of customers.
No, Aimee wasn't a seasonal hire, but her roommate Steve was. He thought I was cute. And nice. And gay...
After sorting out a few personal details (like the fact I wasn't playing for Steve's team, a matter I tried to explain with the best tact I could muster at twenty-three), he decided (reluctantly--still holding out hope, I guess) he should introduce me to Aimee. Several friends of Steve & Aimee's concurred, including a college buddy who was visiting from Chicago one fateful Tuesday in December.
I'd moved to Lawrence that summer to be with another woman... one who promptly kicked me to the curb for a short* guy with a beard who looked a little like her father**. That, I suppose, could make another interesting tale. Since the messy breakup, I'd kept odd hours. Let's blame it on a wonky retail work schedule, okay? Wonky enough I found myself at the Vermont Street post office at eleven P.M. on Tuesday, December 8th, 1998. What kind of a weirdo goes to the post at night?
Me. I still do it from time to time.
After slipping my package in the appropriate slot, I stepped out of the building for my car, and who should be passing on the street but Steve. And who was in his passenger seat? Aimee.They'd just returned to Lawrence after dropping that mutual friend from Chicago at Kansas City International Airport, the only "international" airport I've ever known with no direct international flights.
My first impression of my future wife? She was short***. Very short despite standing nearly 5'10". See, Steve drove a red Honda Civic hatchback, the kind they haven't made for years. Aimee coached basketball for Free State High School in those days, and, wearing sweats and a hat, didn't want to be seen so she scrunched down in the seat. Steve pulled over--much to Aimee's horror--and invited me to a holiday party at their place that weekend.
Ever since that day, Aimee and I celebrated the second Tuesday in December as National Post Office Day, they day she tried not to be seen and I imagined she was about 5'2".
Ever since that day, Tuesdays have been a special day. Have a good one.
* Okay, when you're 6'3" (like I am), most people are "shorter" than you. This is not a dig.
** Well, more like her dad than I do, anyway. Sorry if my talons are too sharp. Feeling a little "raw" right now.
*** See, there I go again. 6'3" man. 6'3".
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