An Astoria Morning

We got to Oregon on Saturday. Eric and I had never had a honeymoon when we were married seven years ago, instead we had to travel to St. Louis and Dallas for receptions--no money or vacation time left after that. So, here we are, alone and together. (Bianca is at home with grandma Quigley for the week.) And it's nice.

Yesterday, right outside the Hotel Elliot where we're staying, we browsed through the Farmer's Market on the street. And took a walk by the water. And drove over to Long Beach, Washington. Then ate at The Wet Dog Cafe, and had frozen hot chocolate at a local ice cream shop. It was great. No worries about a certain four year old. But even though I should be enjoying my time away, I really do miss her a lot and have been calling twice a day.

This morning, I woke at 6:30 am to go jogging. I went two blocks down to the water and jogged along the trolley tracks. It was beautiful. And still. There's something about jogging somewhere that breaks the boundaries between tourist and local. The locals wave and say "good morning" to you in a way they don't when you've got a camera dangling from your wrist. I noticed all the blackberry weeds growing along the waterfront, mentally noting to come back after breakfast for a mid-morning snack.

Astoria reminds me a bit of Key West. My friend Hilary and I spent a summer living there, the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. It has that dingy, old, but rich and beautiful feeling. We leave the windows open at night to let the cold breeze in to take in all the smells. Yeah, it takes me back a bit. I remember being considered a local, since I worked there as a hostess, and I loved being a local. It was great. It's funny, how much the locals despise the tourists but need the commerce to keep their little communities running. I don't blame them, who likes people intruding into their place to take in a couple days of beauty, acting like that's all they need, when it's there every day? I wish I never had to leave, as long as Bianca could be here with us.

When do religious differences begin?

A couple days after I arrived in St. Louis, my friend Hilary told me about the Lutheran Vacation Bible School that her mom volunteered her for. It was happening in July. Would Bianca want to come?

Hmmm, I thought, why not? Hilary and I were inseparable through most of my school years. She is Lutheran; I'm LDS. But we always did everything together. She went to all my churchs dances and youth conferences and activities; likewise, I went to all her churchs outings and sleepovers. We were both Christian. But I'd heard that typically Lutherans think there's something wrong with the Mormon religion. Not sure why, but I'd just heard that. It didn't bother me. Most people didn't like Mormons where I came from.

I decided to sign Bianca up. At first, from the sound of it, Bianca thought they were going to teach her how to read the Bible. I laughed, and told her she'd learn about Jesus, just like she does at regular church on Sundays. I filled out the application (wrote Bianca belonged to the Church of Jesus Christ--generic enough?), paid the $7, and dropped her off at the Lutheran church on Monday night. The parents were supposed to read the message each night as they dropped their child off, which I did, then left her playing. Each night was a Jesus story from the Bible, like walking on water and washing disciples' feet. Stuff we believe in. No problem. Plus, at four years old, would anything be that different from what she learns at our church? It's basic. Jesus is good.

I felt just fine about it. But my husband was unsure. We discussed it a bit, he was wanting to know if Bianca knew which church she belonged to. She was running through the dining room when I stopped her and asked her if she knew what religion she was. She was so tired of hearing about all this Bible school stuff. She huffed irritably, put her arms on her waist, and blurted, "Mom, I know Im a Lutheran and a Bible." I couldn't keep myself from laughing. She fell to the floor, as she always does when she knows I'm laughing about something she's said. I tell her it's good to be funny. Everyone wants to be funny, but she gets angry when I laugh at her. I nearly fell on the floor myself, from laughing. Obviously she doesn't know what religion she is and really, does it matter at this point?

Bianca loved Bible School. The theme was Jesus is a treasure, and they spent the week learning about different kinds of jewels--rubies, emeralds, amethysts, sapphires, diamonds--and connected them with a Bible story, and she got to make treasure chest crafts and dig up jewels from the sand box. She's been in treasure-seeking mode ever since we went to Micah and Karma's house, where the house's previous owners used jewels in their landscaping, and Bianca spent every day there filling a plastic baggie with jewels, treasure-hunting. So this was right up her alley.

On the final night of Bible school, my parents and I went to see the program in the sanctuary. Bianca stood up front with the other kids singing every word to all the songs. She knew them all, and all the arm movements that went along. I smiled watching her, as I always do no matter what church we're at. She got a bagful of treasures to take home. I was glad I put her in bible school.

A night later, as we were in the car, Bianca kept singing one of the songs they learned in Bible school--Jesus, Jesus, is our greatest treasure, he loves us, he loves us--and she sang it over and over until I was singing it myself. We were getting out of our car and my mom said, "Well, if anyone hears her, they'll think what a good little Lutheran kid." And yeah, they probably would. But what's the harm in that?

Both our religions teach about Jesus. Should we as parents teach our children that there's something wrong with other people's religions or being involved in a religion other than your own? I don't think so. What's Christian about that? I believe that every religion that teaches others to be kind and love Jesus and maybe think about each other as children of God is good. Am I wrong?

The St. Louis Experience

My days here in St. Louis are dwindling. This weekend, as I perused my mental checklist of things I must do while I'm in St. Louis, I realized that I hadn't yet eaten at White Castle. I have several restaurants that I have to have while I'm here: Imo's Pizza (St. Louis style pizza, which has become comfort food for me since I moved from this area, if you can believe that), Steak 'n Shake (for those amazing shoestring fries with cheese), Giannino's (for their house salad), and of course White Castle (for their amazing tiny cheeseburgers).

So Friday evening, we decided to swing by White Castle in South County on our way to the Magic House for their free night. We stood in line and ordered our food and waited what seemed like twenty minutes for our food. I was so hungry and excited to eat. My sister-in-law Karma went up to the front to see if our food was ready and it just so happened that mine was. Being the wonderful sister that she is, she grabbed my tray and was walking toward me. I was sitting at the table and saw by the smile on her face, as she walked angelically toward me, like floating, that she was bringing my food. It was just like slow motion, I watched her walk toward me, then mis-step, tipped the tray, then recovered all the food but Bianca's orange soda, which fell on its side, knocked off the top, and cascaded down the table and continued its waterfall right into my lap.

I jumped up, stunned, shocked, and didn't know what to do. My sister Betsy and Karma grabbed all the napkins they could and started dabbing. But I looked down at my now-orange completely soaked shorts and stood in disbelief. After several minutes, I recovered enough to sit back down (at a different table, as the one we were sitting at was now being doused with a dirty mop by an underpaid teenage employee) and tried to eat my cheeseburgers. They didn't taste quite as good as I remembered them being, shivering, my knees trying to knock together but they kept getting stuck together from the sticky orange soda filming my legs.

There was no way I could go anywhere after this. But we called my parents, who brought replacement clothes for me, from the waist down. I peeled the wet shorts from me and peeled my sandals still stuck on my skin and covered my sticky mess up with clean clothes. I still didn't want to go. But tonight was the free night. But Bianca really wanted to go. I said, fine, only for an hour. But we went and I soon forgot about feeling gross and sticky and Bianca had a great time. And we stayed until it closed at nine, and I'm glad we did.

But this brings me to another thought: Would I do something even if I didn't want to, just because it's free?

My other list of things I must do in St. Louis is go to all of its free attractions, which are numerous. (I don't work for the tourism marketing department for the city of St. Louis, despite how this may sound.) But St. Louis is the city with the most free attractions of any city in the U.S. While we're here, we go to the free zoo once a week (and get there before nine to ride the carousel free and get into the children's zoo free); try to see every musical showing at the Muny, to see in the free seats; go to Anheuser-Busch's Grants Farm (which is just like a zoo, but a little different nevertheless, even it is better than the Hoogle Zoo in Salt Lake); different museums, like the art museum, history museum, mastodon museum; if I happen to be here in June, I go to the free Shakespearean festival. There's so much here to do, and I love it. But am I doing it just because it's free or would I do it either way?

I don't know. Have you ever been to a restaurant when you're so full you can barely walk, yet the server brings out free dessert? Do you eat it, even though its painful, just because it's free? I don't think you want to know what my answer is to that, but I think you already do. I eat it. And I run myself silly around the city of St. Louis the entire month I'm here. It's all free. I'm like a kid in a candy store. And even though I'm miserable and have a tummy ache, I'm still eating.

Today's my last full day here, and if you're wondering, I'll be at Powder Valley, a free nature conservation area stocked with trails and wildlife. Oh, and by the way, my dad tried to entice me to go to the Monroe County Fair tonight, as it is the only free-admission night, and I declined. So there you have it, I guess I only do the free things I really want to do. But I really love to eat dessert.

The Second Morning After

This morning--the second morning after the storm raged through St. Louis leaving 500,000 without electricity in 100 degree weather, including my brother Micah and his wife Karma, who slept on the couches here at my parent's house, not to mention my parent's completely booked bed and breakfast--I went to the city park to run.

As I ran, I looked around at the many fallen trees and branches lying helpless and deadening on the ground. Branches and smaller handfuls of leaves lay unattached, littering the path. The clean-up crew hadn't come yet.

I hopped over the small branches and thought about next year, how unless you were here and saw what the storm took from these many sky-stretching trees, you probably wouldn't even know there once had been more.

I thought about how I must appear to most people a year after a tempest ripped my life apart. And how if you met me now, you may not realize that I used to be a different kind of tree. After my friends and family picked up the branches and scattered leaves, I probably looked pretty normal. But I know where my branches used to be and what leaves I'm still missing, even if passers-by don't see it.

I continued running my five miles this morning, watching the ground closely for branches that might trip me up, staring at the path. And I remembered last summer when I'd see discarded Cheerios on this very path, dropped by Miranda as my mom or dad strolled her as I ran, and remembered how I smiled seeing them--just picturing her sticky little fingers jabbing fistfuls of Cheerios at her mouth, dropping most of them. And despite all the branches and leaves, the path seemed awfully empty this year. One year later.

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Tornado Warning

Last night, we had a good 'ol Midwestern scare. I remember well spending evenings from my childhood tucked away in a dark, windowless room in the basement, playing boardgames by candlelight. When the sky started turning a greenish gray color last night, we knew it was for real. Breaking news on every channel, tornado warning.

I had dropped Bianca off at Bible school at six. I was in the house with my parents, a little irritated that I was too agitated about Bianca not being with me to spend my only free time here reading or doing a little writing. Instead we watched the news reports. I wanted to go get Bianca. She would be scared of course. She would need her mom. I could almost hear her crying for me. But decided the worst place you want to be during this kind of storm is in a car. I decided to wait, knowing that the Lutheran church where she was had a nice big safe basement.

Another ten minutes passed and the electricity was out. Of course it would go out. I saw large tree branches whipping past the windows and my parents's trees cracking in half and edged a little away from the windows. Made my way to the deepest part of the basement. We lit candles. I thought more about Bianca being alone and scared.

The storm passed through around 8:15. Fifteen minutes before I was supposed to pick her up from Bible school. When I went to get her, I found her happily eating an otter pop with not a worry in the world. The whole town of Columbia had no electricity, but the basement of the Lutheran church was lit up like heaven with a generator. Bianca greeted me happily, just like normal. We went out to the car.

I asked Bianca, "Were you scared?"

"About what?" she asked.

"The storm."

"No." The leaders hadn't even told the kids that there was a storm brewing or a tornado warning. Smart. Even though, at one point, the kids were all ushered into the bathrooms where it was safest.

"Really? Not even about the tornado?"

"Tornado?" Then she started crying. "I'm scared, mommy." Of course she's scared of tornados. We saw The Wizard of Oz last week. I held her close while we ran through the rain into the house. Then hugged her a little more.

I put Bianca right to bed, read her Peter Pan by candlelight. Then stepped upstairs to play Kings in the Corner with my parents, also by candlelight. A little after nine, the power flashed back on. Our air conditioning was back, the lights were back, the TV back on. Then I read a couple chapters and went to bed. And I wondered how often I manipulate my child into being scared so that she'll need me more, need me to wrap my arms around her so that I can feel better, so that I feel like I kept her safe.

If I only had a heart

Last night, as Bianca and I were sitting in the free seats at The Muny to see The Wizard of Oz, I reflected on the tin man and why he's dearest to me. Why I relate with him more than the others. This is what I came up with (disclaimer: these quotes are not exact, just the best I could remember from last night, so don't quote me):

If I only had a heart (the tin man)

Today's my husbands birthday. I'll call him and say happy birthday and go out to lunch with my mom in his honor. But I'm not with him. I'm still in St. Louis as I have been for over two weeks now, and have another two to go. I think that being able to step away from my life like this is owed to me. I do it every summer and plan to continue doing it. I usually miss his birthday or father's day or some other important day and he takes it in stride.

As the one-year marker of the death of our child approaches (July 28 to be exact), I'm distracted by the many things I'm doing here. I just spent three days with my friend Hilary, where we shopped, went to The Magic House (a childrens museum), even let Bianca and Caleb (her son) go fishing. We're going to the zoo and the art museum and the history museum and Grants Farm and the Arch. But my husband goes to work and comes home to an empty house and I know the one-year thing is bothering him. But I'm distracted; he's not.

The Heart is Useless so long as it is still breakable (The Wizard of Oz to the tin man)

We know a little something about having our hearts broken. I still feel it every day as I go through my constant outings. I feel it every time I see a child who's just learning to walk (as Miranda was when she passed away) or a child who is the age she would be now. I feel it every night as I'm tormented either with dreams of holding her as she was or my dreams about death. And I feel it every time I don't have anything in my arms, and they're hanging there useless instead of feeling the weight of her in them.

A Clinking, Clunking, Cavernous hunk of junk (the lion describing the tin man)

Yeah, I feel like that too. Sometimes the guilt I feel travels through my body until I feel hard and cold and useless. I feel guilt in so many ways--the fact that I was at fault in the accident, where I put the car seat in the car, that I didn't let Miranda have as many cookies as she wanted, that I wasn't a perfect mom, that I never will be.

The success of the heart is judged not by how much it loves, but how much it's loved by others (The Wizard of Oz to the tin man)

And although sometimes I don't deserved to be loved, I am. By my wonderful husband who puts up with a lot from me. And who is, for the most part, usually supportive whether it's my writing, my book clubs, my moods, my night walks, or just me. By my daughter Bianca who forgives me every time I yell at her. By my friends who accept me and are still around. And even though she's no longer with me, I know that I was loved by my baby who always stopped crying in my arms and was never happier anywhere else than at home.

If I had just had my hearts content, I would have never gone beyond my own backyard (Dorothy)

As I go through my life, I realize that there's not much else as important as my family. As I've said before, if I'd only just known how truly happy I was exactly one year ago, at least I could have appreciated it. How was I supposed to know?

What did you inherit from your dad?

Jogging in St. Louis is like trying to run in a sauna. A tangible, wet heat that makes me sweat big globs visible through the back of my t-shirt. But I jog every other morning here in St. Louis, just like I do at home. But here, in lieu of an alarm clock, my dad raps on my door at 6:15 a.m. If Bianca's still sleeping, just dad and I go. If she's awake, my mom comes along and pushes her in the stroller until my hour is up and we meet at the playground afterward.

Today it was just dad and me. We drove to the park with the top down in his Solera convertible (yes, he admits it's a bit of an after-mid-life crisis thing) to the Columbia park, where they have a twisty, one-mile-long path through woods and past the playground. Sounds like a nice father-daughter morning, right? Well, it's not what it seems.

My dad is a competitor in every sense of the word. On the fourth of July, I was frustrated that we were going to be late for our barbecue at my brother Micah's house because my dad was dinking around the house and bet him a McDonald's sausage biscuit that he couldn't get us to their house on time. Yes, it was all of $0.99 on the line, but you better believe he made it there right on time. You see, competition and money motivate my dad.

While we were jogging this morning, he ran alongside me at the start. For about a mile and a half. I told him I'm a lone jogger. No talking. I need music. Then he stuttered into a walk. I waved nonchalantly, even exhaled a heavy "see ya later," then jogged on. A quarter mile later, I was startled by a sprinter running past on my left. It was my dad. He stopped several feet ahead of me, then walks again. I continue jogging on, shaking my head as I go past. Another quarter mile later, he does it again. It's like trying to shake a clingy dog off my ankle. He's so competitive. He can't let me win.

I'm reminded of my trip here to St. Louis last summer when my sister Susannah (you know I love you, Susannah) decided she had to jog with me. I told her distractedly that I prefer to run alone--keep my own pace, not able to make conversation between heavy breaths--but she thought it would be a great bonding experience. She always gets her way. I relented. We'd run and she stayed with me the entire time, until 50 yards to finish, then she'd kick it, dash past me with Olympic-caliber concentration, and win the race. I tried to tell her I'm not competing with her. I jog for the sheer enjoyment of it. She scoffed. Everyone wants to beat everyone else. Yes, she's a competitor like my dad.

Eventually, my dad admitted defeat and stopped trying to zip past me every quarter mile. We met up afterward. But I've realized through this experience that we all inherit things from our parents. My sister inherited my dad's competitive nature, I guess I inherited his frugality. It's okay. I'd rather be cheap than have to beat everyone at everything.

When do I get my happy ending?

I hate happy endings. I know I'm in the minority. Most people like them in books and movies because we don't usually get them in real life. And that's exactly why I don't like them. If I can't have one, why should this fictional character?

I realized I was starting to have a dismal perspective on life when I began devouring the complete works of Thomas Hardy. And I would find myself dissatisfied at the movie theatre when a movie would wrap itself up, all perfect and exact at the seams, with a pretty little bow.

On Friday night, I went with my friend Hilary (my best friend since grade school) and her husband to the Muny to see "Aida." The Muny is this great outdoor theatre that rotates musicals each week and sets aside 1200 free seats each night. It's amazing, if you can stand the humidity and the mosquitoes. And I can. The story ends with the star-crossed lovers being buried alive together. I loved it. No one pulled them out of the tomb at the last minute. They died together in each other's arms. Aida was great--the performers were fantastic, the music was great, the temperature seemed to be a little cooler that night, and I got my tragic ending.