(Forrest took these photos yesterday of Crow and me on our family Father’s Day adventure)
Wrapped
Entrapped
Bursting through the surface
And gasping for air
A dolphin above the waters
A woman beneath big sky
Ascending to higher ground
Scattered seeds settled
The wind pauses
Roots begin to grow
Twisted in the unseen vine
Back to ashes
Where we belong
A holiday in a new home and the first in eighteen years without my son. Not bad, not really, at least (I’m forever the optimist). Only different. All new.
New experiences. Of course it would be better if he were here with us. Better for us, that is. He, well, he’s spending the weekend at Whistler, snowboarding. So my heart shall not bleed for his loneliness on this holiday weekend.
Here, for me, it’s all new. And that’s OK too. New view from the window in front of my computer. Under a pale grey sky are bright white and tan snowy, rolling hills reaching only as far as patches of dark timber scatter off into the distance. Nothing above tree line. No hills across this river with avi shoots torn into their sides. Instead, houses with lights I know I can see at night. The ground twinkles with a constellation or two. Something I haven’t lived with for more than passing spells in twenty years. New state, new home, new job, new neighbors, new friends.
And old familiar scents grounding me. Bread is baking in the oven.
I write to a (new) friend:
“The house now heavy with the waft of baking bread. I have read your blog posts, one after the other. I should have spaced them out, allowed them time to settle, but breaked for no more than changing loaves in the hot oven. My mind as heavy as the bread scented air with thoughts stirred up from your writings – at once thoughtful, beautiful and horrid. And still a broad smile spreads across my face to have had the opportunity to read, share, and meet… It is good. Somehow at the end of the day, it does end up good, you know?”
I’m feeling sappy and sentimental. Bear with me, or pass me by today, friends, but I’m feeling my age, my sex (yes, I am a woman, and allowed if not expected to be emotional, thank you!), my life and world settling into newness like heavy snow on tall tired grass.
I have much to be thankful for, this new friend included in my lengthy list. (Karen and my other fellow fans of four leggeds, please be sure to see the writing of Tricia M. Cook in the Mountain Gazette. I believe I may not be only one to find a new friend.)
I’m thankful for a new girlfriend and look forward Ladies Night at the local Ace Hardware and someone to kick up snow along a new backcountry with old snowshoes and young dogs.
I’m thankful for chains for the pickup. I would like to agree with Tricia that “girls don’t do chains,” but truth is we’d never get to our new home without them. So although getting wet and muddy jeans and jacket, and frozen fingers each morning before work is not ideal, at least we get there. (Snowmobiling home the 6 ½ miles we were used to in Colorado, believe it or not, was easier.)
I’m thankful for that snow and slush and even the glaze of rain than fell on top and hardened to a sheen that holds you up for just a second then drops you down past the surface into the soft snow below. It’s a good work out with each step. It’s this stuff that makes these trees grow. And there are some BIG trees here. Beautiful big fat hearty happy fir trees. Sweet smelling and picture perfect with boughs laden with the load of snow. I’m thankful for these big trees and to be living amongst them.
I’m thankful for neighbors. What a pleasure it is! Neighbors! Such good ones. Plowing us out as we’re busy plowing out someone else. Helping each other out of the bar ditch on the side of the road (a seemingly regular occurrence for vehicles – without chains – around here). Baking bread and sharing a hot coffee or cold beer (or locally brewed hard cider). The folks at the local internet company that make you feel at home in town when you walk in their office (even when you don’t bring them a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls).
I’m thankful for dogs, mine, my neighbors, and the ability to let my dear dog be both a family member and a dog, and a very happy one at that.
I’m thankful for Nature. She is new to me here. I am learning her like a stranger on a second date, not sure yet where you stand together, how close to sit, what the other person eats and drinks, and when and where to drive her home.
I’m thankful for my readers – friends, family, strangers, those I have not met but feel somehow close to, and those that haven’t written me directly but peak in from time to time or on some random search – for putting up with my ramblings.
I’m thankful for my son in a wonderful, exciting, challenging and unique university experience (or happily snowboarding as the case may be this weekend), far away but so very close. And my husband by my side. Completing, balancing, grounding me.
So I’ll try not to feel too terrible sorry for myself that my son is not here to complete my day. Because when I look around, it’s pretty complete even without him. But that’s how a good relationship should be. Fine without, but better because you’re there.
Change. How do I put this into words? Share this with you? It is not what I expected. Not what I am used to writing about. Uncomfortable. Not bad, just different. So different I am out of my element. Out of touch. Out of words.
I didn’t plan this part. Guess we’re not always in control of the world around us. But we can control how we react to it all. Ride the wave. Rather than tumble under and gasp for air. I’ve been there, too.
Still, this is not how I wanted it to begin for Forrest. This is not how I wanted to come back to visit him. But we do what has to be done. And hopefully learn from it all.
I’ve learned a lot already. I’ve learned you never stop being a mother… or sister or friend. Distance doesn’t matter. If you’re needed, you’re there. I should have known this one already. I’ve tested the boundaries of my own mother (and sister and friends) plenty in the almost thirty years since leaving home, and learned that this is in fact true. Tested and proven, over and over and over again. There is comfort in this for me. I’m not ready for mothering to end. Though I look forward to where it brings me, now dealing with an exciting and interesting adult for my so-called child. For now, it’s brought me to Squamish, British Columbia to nurse him back to health after a mountain bike mishap. I can think of worse places to be.
I’ve learned my son is as strong, smart, capable and independent as I expected, which is a lot. However, there are some times one should not be alone. Like after an accident. And then dealing with broken out front teeth, a busted nose, and a rattled brain… all after living here for less than three weeks. Minor details.
So here I am. Wishing I could do more. Not as upset as I thought I’d be to see this handsome young man looking rather rough.
Here I am. Sitting with my son on our rental apartment balcony in the morning sun, with downtown Squamish bustling before us, and these wild mountains cradling us all in the shockingly soothing light. I can almost hear the call… deep, old, wise words singing in the soft moist wind as it winds from the sea through these lush green peaks jutting out from the cold Pacific waters.
Yes, I could think of worse places to be.
We sat in the tent, my son and me, as the light withered. The horses were in the trees for the night,
the little stove hissed, dinner was done, a candle or two were lit in preparation
of the darkness that was swelling.
Everything changes, but some things remain the same. He will always be my son. I will always be his mother, and be, give,
create everything I can for him. I will be
there for him if he needs me, though “there” may have greater physical distance
between us. And “needing” may not be as often.
We talked, just the two of us, as two adults, two individuals
with big hearts and big dreams, together in one quiet tent in the middle of the
Wilderness. I gave one last
lecture. No, there will be more. He knows.
He’s had them his whole life. He
knows I speak because I care. I worry, I
want to give him all I can.
I reminded him of the Cowboy Way. Rules to live by, each of us, as he heads out
to make his own choices without me near to intervene. Probably better now. He knows plenty. He is ready.
He may not always make the right choices, but he will probably know when
he is wrong, and hopefully do what he can to amend. He will be hurt from time to time, too. That is life, but as a mother, that is a hard
one to accept. We wish for a perfect,
protective bubble. Yet we know life
doesn’t work that way.
And I reminded him of what matters most to me, for I see
these things matter to him, too.
These are the words of wisdom I send my son off with as he
leaves tomorrow to begin the journey to college. The road trip begins. The adventure begins. A new world unfolds. He is leaving behind the world and home he
has known for more than half his life.
He shows no regrets, sadness, loss or remorse. Only a calm excitement, which is basically
how he handles life. He’s better at that than me.
I compare his reaction to the negative ones I hear too often
associated with change here. I am tired
of hearing what it means to the tourists who come here for but a week a year
when humbly my job has required me to listen.
My son, for whom this has been not just a fond memory but a solid and
real home with all the ups and downs that a full rich life are built on, has still
not whined. And I know he will not.
Tomorrow our life changes.
Just like that. I don’t know the
answers yet. Maybe some of them. Like Forrest going to college. That’s awesome. I’m proud of him as a proud parent could ever
be for working as hard as he has to allow himself the opportunities and open
doors he found and created. His choices. His life.
As for me, for us, a family, a couple now, moving, changing,
growing, starting something new… I’m ready.
Bring it on.
A weekend returned and resting from ditch camp. Perhaps resting is not the right word. Moving cows (bringing the girls to a boy), cleaning cabins, clothes and selves, restocking and repacking. I’m slack on finding time to catch up with correspondence and writing. And when I finally do sit down to write, the words and stories overwhelm and I don’t know where to begin. There seems to be so much. Summers, rich and full. As they must be. Fast and furious and fleeting in the high country.
I must begin with the practical. An explanation of ditch camp for those of you who have no idea what I’m referring to. For those who know, please excuse the redundancy. I’ll share something new with you next time.
Ditch camp is about the three of us living in a little thin wall tent with a wood stove, a welcome upgrade from five years ago when we began camped out under a tarp. It is about being tired and sore and dirty at the end of the day, earning our rest, our silence, our sleep. It is about sitting wordlessly together with a simple meal of Hamburger Helper, listening. To each other. To the steam of the coffee on the fire. The sound of the creek. Birds. The horses contented exhales as they graze on the endless pasture of the Divide. The wind through the trees baring their soul as the needles fall and soften the ground below with a silvery brown blanket.
Ditch camp is about days spent with hand tools and horse power. A team of three. One family, close, together, comfortable in the wild world. And horses and dog and wildlife. Shovels and picks, drags and slips. Rebuilding low banks. Cleaning out debris and sediment washed in during the spring run. Repairing damage and improving flow. And my favorite part. Clearing and felling trees with the old crosscut saw, one pair taking turns as the third person stands guard with ax in hand, watching the waving of the top of the tree to tell us it is ready to fall. The forced and powerful rhythm of the back and forth metal on wood, torsos to and fro, vigorous breathing in and out, sawdust and shavings gathering in reward at the base of the tree as the cut gets deeper and deeper.
And on the most practical level, ditch camp is about maintaining a transcontinental ditch deep in the Weminuche Wilderness for a private company that owns the water rights. An old ditch built long ago bringing water from a creek that flows to the west of the Divide over a mile to the east. Pretty simple. They don’t know we see it as the romantic adventure it is, and remain grateful for the hard work we do.
As for the rest, and there is so much more to share with you, I must wait for another day.
Time to get back to work.
I carried him until he was seven. There he’d be, a regular appendage, content and strapped on my back. Folks would say that before too long his feet would be touching the ground behind me and I could just kick back and let him carry me.
You see, I didn’t want to slow down, but I didn’t want to leave him behind. Carrying him was my compromise.
And I wanted him to have what I missed. The things I would have liked. Not that I was neglected. But I was rushed. The last of four kids, growing up and moving on was something expected of me before I was usually ready. Not a big trauma by any means, but it left an impression. Enough so that I decide I wanted my child to be able to take his time growing up. At his own pace, without rush or pressure. To know comfort was always there if he needed it, a place to fall back on, and then when he was truly ready, the foundation solid, he’d have what it takes to step forward with confidence.
At least that was my theory. You can’t say I didn’t try. Any although it’s easy to see some of the things I did give him that others didn’t have, like horses, wildlife, quiet time, and home baked bread, you also can easily see what he missed. After school sports, birthday parties, Friday night dates, riding his bike to the corner store, and going to the mall or movies.
I think now, as his childhood comes to a close, he does not feel terribly lacking. If you look at him now, would you say he missed out? Would you notice him to be any different?
I’ve been back and forth for years worrying about the things he missed out on, the things I deprived him of. Ultimately I believed he’d be ok. That this unusual upbringing would shape him in a most positive way. That the things he missed would not outweigh those special things he had that others did not. Snowmobiling for his afternoon break. A summer job alongside his parents. Time talking, thinking, listening to the wind. Fresh eggs from the chickens he raised.
And the question so many have asked me. Growing up in a wild land without fences or boundaries to contain him, why didn’t he get in trouble more? He learned to keep a level head. I don’t know if that’s something you can teach or if it’s something you just figure out. In any case, he got it.
My theory on this was that raising a kid is kind of like keeping a dog on a leash all the time. They’ll never learn where they belong if they are not give the chance to figure it out, make a few mistakes, and find where they want to be. For the most part. You can’t let them run crazy and into the street. But you got to have some trust. I think a good deal of what he learned was because of his observing nature. He learned from seeing foolish mistakes of others, bad choices by the unprepared tourists we’ve had to rescue more than a few times. He learned how many traumas and dramas can be avoided with common sense, and careful planning, preparation and action. And yes, I always trusted him. He had to deal with his own guilt if (and when) he messed that part up. He didn’t often.
But I think one of the biggest reasons for why he might not feel like he missed out too much was because of Bob. Were it not for Bob, it would be different. He’d have missed out on the lighter side of life, stale humor, goofy actions, dirty jokes, and wild rides. Remember, he got the two-for-one deal. Brother and father in one. And best friend. Added bonus.
My boys.
There they are now, far from this mountain, kicking back in two separate beds in some hotel room eating hot wings and pizza they had delivered for dinner, and watching Ice Road Truckers, Pawn Stars, or Mythbusters on TV. And this is how Forrest’s future unfolds and begins.
I’m actually quite intrigued by what is put on TV. And what people chose to watch. And after twenty something years of living without it, I don’t miss it one tiny bit.
But it’s deeper than that. They aren’t there for the TV, per se, but for looking at a college that I think is going to lure him in for next four years of his life, and open his horizons far beyond the beauty of the mountain and security of home. And I’m proud of him.
Me, I’m back home with the horses, chickens, cats and dog, awaiting news that probably won’t come until they’re home and relaxing and sitting down, then begin unfolding their tales like wings on a dragonfly, so delicate and fine with each tender vein carefully revealed in the light.
Ah, storytelling. What a pleasure! The exquisite delight of sharing tales that speaks wonders for why we don’t have TV.
They won’t waste such stories for e-mail or text messages. Though I sort of wish they would. I’d like to know more.
My boys. I suppose I should call them men now. Men of few words. Leave me hanging, guessing, wondering what they’re up to.
Bob tells me, “You’ve always said take care of each other. That’s what we do.”
So there they are, in a distant corner of the country, over a thousand miles away, deciding my son’s future, and I’m here, far away and can’t help or be involved or do anything about it.
And you know what?
It’s ok.
And at the same time, I smile and cry.
My little boy has grown up.
Gin Getz 