parenting

Parting ways

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

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gunnar

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The dog jumps up on the second story window and tries to get out.  I don’t blame him.  I feel like doing the same.  We watch the boys head out on snowmobile, towing a toboggan sled containing houseplants started from cuttings that came from California, Washington, and somewhere back east from before I was born. And cats.  Three of them. Two are 16 years old.  A gift to Forrest when he was three.  Because his mother doesn’t like mice.  I had never had good luck with cats.  None lasted with me for more than a year.  Maybe I was doing something really wrong, but I swear, it was not intentional.  Mostly, I guess, just bad luck.  Like it was for the little black cat that got hit by a car.  Guess my luck (and theirs) changed.  Many a dead mouse later, these two girls aren’t good for much more than a snuggle now.  But you know, there’s still great value in that.

First the horses. Then the chickens.  Then the plants, the cats, and THE BOYS.  This dog knows something is up.

Bob, he’ll be back tomorrow.  Time for us to pack.  Tie up loose ends, close this place down, and get ready to head out.

Forrest, well, we won’t see him until the first of May when he’s done with school for the semester.  College in Canada.

Seven thousand miles away we’ll be.  Geez.  7000 miles.  It looks like less when I write it that way.  Or his way.  Over 11,000 km.  No, that way is bigger. Way bigger.  Let’s not go there.

I was not ready to see him go.  I never am.  I wonder if I ever will be.

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bob gunnar forrest

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Confessions of a mountain mama

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

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our mountain

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So yes, travel… But first, life.  The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about.  I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet.  Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations.  We don’t take them. So what am I doing?  Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded.  On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me.  For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind.  This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us.  Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away.  I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb.   My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me.  Otherwise, I would not go.  I’m really not interested in such frivolity.  Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about.  Now I love what I have.  But still want to experience more.  Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character.  Embrace it all.

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looking to indian ridge

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All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?).  Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it.  None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good.  What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me.  For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part?  The rest might seem like boring details in comparison.  They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things?  (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

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winter grass

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Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before?  You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real?  Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about?  Really, take a minute and think about it.  Maybe write it down so it’s clear.  Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like.  I’m glad to listen.  It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother.  Nothing has created me more.  I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.)  I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for.  I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion.  I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion.  I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before.  After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say.  We’re three equals now.  There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more.  More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start.  For travel will change you.  Not tourism, but travel.  Going to be, not just to see.

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willow branch with frost

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My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact.  Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed.  I am waiting.  Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming.  Maybe this isn’t the time.  Make the time.

Writing.  Sharing.  We all have gifts. I believe this is mine.  I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together.  Some of you have seen that, or figured that out.  This is my thing.  Sharing stories.  Maybe just images.  Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me.  Or inside, deep within.

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dried grass barbed wire and frost

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This makes no sense, I know.  This is no explanation for where I am going.  Though maybe it is. In a round-about way.  I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there.  The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes!  It’s six below zero (-21C)  without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one!  Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind.  Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

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ptarmigan

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What matters most

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

This is personal.  I should be more inclusive, more open, universal, involving.  After all, this is a blog.  A conversation with the public.  And here I am today unable to see beyond my little world, my mountain, my family.  Unable to find words or stories that might incorporate you.  Except that I think perhaps you might understand this.  In one way or another.   Your own way, I shall hope.

So today, I’ll use you as my sounding board. Feel free to bounce back.  Sharing thoughts I’m only starting to clarify.  Not the most profound perhaps, but stuff that matters most to me.

It’s about mothering.

No surprise that’s on my mind as yesterday was Mother’s Day.  A “Hallmark Holiday” my own mother used to call it.  But I think this one is more. I think it’s an excuse to remember how important the “job” of mothering is, or at least, can be.  A position that lasts “until death do us part” and beyond, for no good mother forgets or lets go of a child lost before her. Likewise does a child of any age not recover from the loss of good mother.  An irreplaceable void remains.

Mothering.  A position that goes without proper recognition, title or salary, but without which the world would fall apart at the seams.

And then again, I’ve met mothers not worthy of the title.  But I’m not going there today.

Mothering has meant the world to me.  To be a mother.  Nothing has formed me, transformed me, more.  And then last year when I first lost the daily point and purpose, the focus, title and self definition, when my son went off to college, I was lost.  But I learned that a grown son is still a son, and a mother (a good one) will always be there with love, concern, support, care. To nurture by nature.  Relationships, like everything else in life, change.  You figure it out if you try.

And ours has changed.  At 45, I am not the nurturing fresh young mother with filling breasts at the sound of a baby’s cry (perhaps an image only a nursing mother can relate to). I am closer to the age of a grandmother. I am somewhere in between.  I am enjoying the adult son.  Our team has easily evolved into the new classification of three adults in one home.  I’ve tried to treat him as such for a few years now, awaiting his maturity to fill the position, balanced with my poking and prodding (I prefer to call it “encouragement”).  Now I try to reduce the latter.  I have to learn.  It is hard.  I worry.  I get protective.  And still, I must step back and allow.  That’s the big part of parenting that’s not so easy, but so very, very important.  Finding the balance between holding back (holding one’s tongue!) and encouragement, compliment, and support of one another as any positive adult relationship should.  Helping each other be the best we each can be.

Has it been hard to watch him grow and go?  No!  Nothing could please me more, for I take such pride in his success.  I am not sure how to describe this.  It is not a personal pride of, “Oh look at how well he’s doing.  Dang, I must have done a great job as a mother!”  No.  It’s so different.  Rather it is quiet as I step back and observe, and swell with such incomparable adoration of watching the one you love more than your life learn to make the most of his own.

And where does that leave me as a mother of a grown son?  Learning to redefine myself.  Am I no longer a mother?  Perhaps not in the day to day, the chores and duties, the ball and chain and lack of sleep and abundant lectures.  Then what?  I am not sure yet.  It is changing as I write, with he nearby, writing on his own, no longer needing my prodding, direction, encouragement… Not needing?  Perhaps learning himself to do without.

This one is deep.  I could ramble on forever as I figure this out.  It is fascinating to me.  But by the time I figure it out, chances are, the relationship, the players, will be changing once again.  And yes, once again, I do have work to do, duties besides mothering (or just thinking about it) are calling… so…

So this one is personal.  Please allow this of me.  I always wish to try to include you, my reader, but perhaps this one just is about me and mine.  And then again, perhaps it is more than that.  For perhaps you too know what it is like for a relationship to evolve, revolve, turn about, and end up exactly where it should be, which isn’t always where we expect it to be, but hopefully is someplace even better…

Where I am now

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

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.

Childhood

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments


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.