Jar of Flies in Turkiye

Road Trip! 

It's amazing to me how music reminds me of a certain time or place in my life.

As I was listening to some music on my iPod on the way home from work tonight, a number of songs played that took me straight back in time: But it was Alice In Chains Jar of Flies that took me back to October 2003, and Brian and my trip to Turkey.

It was a long trip we were on. Twenty-four days, starting in London, going to Paris, Venice, Florence, Rome, with a flight to Athens, Greece, a boat to Samos Island, and ultimately another ferry to Turkey, where we landed in Kusadasi, and took another short bus ride up to Izmir, where we saw the ancient city of Ephasus.

From there we took a 9-hour bus ride to Istanbul, and this is where the stories and pictures begin.

The Ferry To Istanbul  That 9-hour bus ride, which most people would want to avoid with a plane ride, was one of our best memories of Turkey.

In Izmir, a port city of 3 million people, was extremely welcoming, and not used to seeing American tourists. The two nights we spent there we enjoyed dinners on the waterfront, and shopping in their downtown area where I was stared at as if I were Julia Roberts walking down the street. The Turks' interest in us and overwhelmingly friendly attitude took me by surprise.

As we boarded the bus for Istanbul one morning, we met an Australian & Canadian couple who we would end up spending 4 days in Istanbul with, sharing the same hotel, and going out to dinners together after a day of touring on our own. It was so neat to make some new friends, and we are still in contact with Sergei & Sarah.

On that bus ride, we also met some kids. A high school-aged girl was reading a Harry Potter book in Turkish, and Brian struck up a conversation with her about the book, not knowing that it was something of a social taboo for a man to talk to a girl without some sort of formal introduction and someone there to chaperone.

But it wasn't the international incident one would think -- The girl spoke limited English, and Brian was soon using his Turkish phrasebook to talk with her and her friends. By the time the bus got to the ferry, which would take us across The Dardenelles to Istanbul, he had a following of several teenagers, including the ones pictured here.



Which brings me to Alice In Chains -- The boy in the picture on the far left began sharing music from his CD player with Brian -- he would play a Turkish song, and Brian would share some of his music. As the Alice In Chains, Jar of Flies CD got plugged in, his eyes widened -- apparently never in his young life had he heard the Grunge Rock music that is Alice In Chains. He smiled, and immediately tried to talk Brian into exchanging some music on a permanent basis.

I still wonder what he said to his parents or friends, and the story of meeting Americans on his school field trip to Istanbul. The very thought that we had such an impact on these kids -- who were so pleased to meet us and had so many questions about life in these United States, at least as many as we had about their lives. It warms my heart yet that we were there at that space in time, and that those kids got to meet some "regular" Americans who were friendly and open.

Pop Rocks


Boy On The Way To Istanbul 

The kid in this picture was also on the ferry. I still have the small pack of Kleenex tissue that I bought from him. But he also got a remembrance of us. He was about 8 or 9 years old, wearing a Ford Motor Co. hat, but otherwise didn't have much in the way of experience with us foreigners. He persistently bugged me to buy some Kleenex from him, and finally I gave in.

But then, I surprised him. I pulled out a pack of "Pop Rocks" -- the candy that explodes in your mouth when you eat it. It was a tip from Rick Steves to bring things you could share with children as an ice breaker...and in many countries, the old addage "Don't take candy from strangers" doesn't apply.

I gave the kid a packet of the Pop Rocks, and he opened it as I told him to eat it -- He did, but ate the whole thing, and his eyes widened as the candy started to explode in his mouth.

"BAP!" he said. "BAP! BAP!" he said. My limited knowledge of Turkish figured that was the word for "POP! POP!"

He smiled a grin that still sticks with me. A grin so big, you would have thought he had heard Alice In Chains for the first time.

It's funny to me -- before Brian and I went to Turkey -- He had been there once during a USO Band Tour in the 1990s, I remember asking what I would now consider stupid -- or at least ignorant -- questions about Turkey.

Today, when I visit a internet board about travel, I do everything I can to explain what a wonderful country Turkey is (spelled Turkiye there). To tell the few stories I know of their national hero, Ataturk, to explain that they are a secular Muslim country, which means they separate Church and State just like us -- to explain that there are few placees on this planet where one can feel more genuinely welcomed. That is the joy in life.

That, and sharing a little "Jar of Flies" with the world.

There's nothing like pleasing a kid

My youngest nephew Erik, is 10 years old, and the youngest of my brother and sister's kids. Ever since I made the Jacob's Ladder quilt for my sister, Erik has told me how much he loves it, and that he keeps stealing it. "Mom has to keep reminding me that it's HERS" he said a couple of weeks ago.

Tonight I talked to him on the phone as he came back to the car from soccer practice. Even though I don't know JACK about soccer other than "offense", "defense" and "goalie", I asked him about his game...what position he plays, etc. When I asked him if he ever plays goalie, he said "yea, but when I do, I'm REALLY BAD AT IT. I mean, I SUCK." he says. ROFL. Nothing like another kid in my family not mincing words. LOL.

Anyway tonight he said he is taking his Mom's quilt a lot, and I told him that I haven't made a quilt for any of the kids yet, and that I thought since he liked it so much, maybe he should be the FIRST. Well, that "YEAH!" that I heard out of him was all I needed.

I don't know what it is, but just knowing you put the last one first, and made a kid's day, will make my day for days to come.

There's nothing quite like making a kid happy.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

It's funny, how sometimes someone else's gift turns out to be yours too.

My friend Holly found this quilt among her grandmother's things recently. It's an unfinished quilt top and I'm not sure who made it or when. But because I'm a quilter, she asked if I might take a stab at helping her finish it.

What a gift! Not for her (well for her, sure), but for me too.

I've never met Holly in person, she's one of my online friends -- and so I've never met her family either.

But there's an unorganized sisterhood of quilters in the world. Many of us haven't met each other either, but we might run into and talk to each other when we wait in line at the fabric store, or like this situation, come across a creation someone else started.

I took Holly's quilt top to the fabric store last weekend, and matched some light blue denim style (a chambray, really, a very light denim fabric) to the existing material for the border & the backing.

The line at Hancock Fabrics was desperately long due to an apparent fire sale on fleece, which goes like hotcakes here in Denver this time of year, so I chatted with the lady behind me in line, and we started talking projects. I had Holly's grandma quilt in my bag, and I showed it to the lady, and explained my mission: to finish the quilt for my friend.

The lady gasped with a big "Ohhhhhhhh" as she looked at the ancient fabric.

It's an honor and a privilege to be able to finish an unfinished quilt. My husband the musician said it's like the honor that comes when you're asked to finish someone's symphony after they've left one unfinished after they've died.

Yes, it really is.

For us quilters out there -- we're a long line of people, related or not, who recognize the value of even the plainest of quilts as a creation of love and an act of artistry.

For me, it's a pleasure to work on this quilt. As I started to hand quilt it tonight, I was so glad I made that decision instead of rushing to finish it on my sewing machine. To hand quilt a relic like this feels like it's getting its justice. As I sewed tonight, I wondered about the lady who made it, what caused her to be unable to finish it. I think about whether someone will ever need to finish a quilt for me generations from now. I gently mended the worn areas, and hope that it will hold.

But ultimately, I know that it will become what it was intended: Something that keeps people warm at night, wrapped in the love of the family member who made it, and with a little extra from me.

And that's what makes me feel good.

A Poem For Surviving Moms

A gal on one of my boards posted this tonight, and it really touched me:

My mom is a survivor

My mom is a survivor,
Or so I’ve heard it said.
But I hear her crying at night when all others are in bed.

I watch her lie awake at night and go and hold her hand.
She doesn’t know I am with her to help her understand.
But like the sands on the beach that never wash away…
I watch over my surviving mom, who thinks of me each day.

She wears a smile for others
A smile of disguise.
But through Heaven’s door I see tears flowing from her eyes.

My Mom tries to cope with death to keep my memory alive.
But anyone who knows her knows it is her way to survive.

As I watch over my surviving mom through Heaven’s open door…
I try to tell her that angels protect me forevermore.
I know that doesn’t help her… or ease the burden she bears.

So, if you get a chance, go visit her.
And show her that you care.
For no matter what she says… no matter what she feels.
My surviving Mom has a broken heart… that time won’t ever heal.

Written by Kaye DesOrmeaux

14,000

I am sick to my stomach reading the story I found on Yahoo News today.

The US has held 14,000 detainees in its "war on terror" in its prisons both in Guantanamo Bay and in a prison system it has set up around the world.

It's downright shameful that we hold these people without the right to a fair trial, and outcries over our treatment of these prisoners continue to go unresponded to by the Bush Administration.

I'm all for keeping America safe. But I'm also aware that no amount of detainee camps are going to keep us safe. If nothing else, we'll hold them til when, they die of old age? Because if we let them go, Lord knows how many more terrorists we will have created as their resentment over being held for long periods of time grows. Not to mention their children and other family who's seen them disappear.

I'd hate any government who held one of my brothers for so much as a month without a lawyer or fair hearing, even if he HAD done something wrong.

I find this sickening, unequivocally wrong, and downright embarrassing to what America stands for.

Or should I say stood for?

Do What You Love, Love What You Do -- A Tribute To Fred Cox, Jr.

Think for a minute about who in your life has touched you.

Someone who has lit up your life. Someone who has changed it forever.

For many of us, that list is a short one.

Among the lucky, they met, knew and loved Fred Cox.

Fred Cox Jr. was only 27 years old when he died in the attacks on the World Trade Center on 9/11. Working as an investment banker at Sandler O'Neill & Partners, Fred had talked and perhaps charmed his way into a job he loved. He worked on the 104th floor of Tower 2.

He was known to have called the World Trade Center towers "his twin girls" and loved his adopted city of New York.

Like the Towers, Fred Cox was as big as life, and will never be forgotten among the friends and family he left behind who live in his other hometowns -- in Georgia, where he was born, in Phoenix, Arizona, where he moved when he was 14 to live with his father, and New Hampshire, a favorite family spot.

All of those who I talked to while researching Fred's life for today's remembrance have a million ways to describe him -- just a few were giving, caring, devoted son, friend and love.

And his no-holds-barred approach to life was infectious.

As I began to put together the various pieces of information I could get from Fred's life off the Internet and from friends, I realized the best way to honor Fred would be to simply share Fred with the world through the eyes of those who knew him best, at least as many as I could find in these past few weeks.

One of his best friends, John Sebald wrote me after I asked his friends to tell me a bit about Fred. In an e-mail to John, I wrote that from what I was gathering, Fred was quite a character, which would prove to be an understatement of proportions as big as Fred's life was.

John wrote back "Fred was the epitome of one who took everything he could from life. All those who surrounded him -- family and friends -- went along for that ride, and quickly gained a deeper appreciation for life and all it has to offer."

John said he met Fred his freshman year in high school. "He sat behind me in my English class and consistently tried to copy off my tests. I didn't think much of him as he was a tall, gangly, skinny guy with funny hair. He had just moved to Arizona from Georgia, and didn't have many friends. He tried relentlessly to befriend me, but was such a pest that I didn't want anything to do with him."

"I finally gave in, had a serious conversation with him, and found out what a terrific guy he was. We had so much in common, and he seemed almost like a long lost brother."

Aaron Kuhl, another friend of Fred's, said "No one was more sincere than Fred. One of the most memorable ways he expressed that was in his bear hugs. If you'd extend your hand, he'd bring you in for a bear hug. This was sincere love."

Aaron also gave me some insight into Fred's precociousness, charm, and generosity.

"In college when Fred and I went to sell books in Georgia, after a few days in the car and a few days in a Motel 6, Fred found a mansion for us to live in for $10 a week. One morning he was messing around and ran over my bicycle. A few days later, he replaced it with a 1967 Cadillac Limousine at no charge to either of us. It was unbelievable, but just like Fred."

Fred would often get people to do things for him and his friends that no one else could have done. "After we missed our flight to Cabo, Fred arranged for a tour of Mexico with a stop in Mazatlan and a flight connecting to Cabo for us a few days later at no additional charge. He brought Lance, Brian and I along for the ride," Aaron wrote. "And last year at my wedding (in 2000), Fred had the bellhop give him a ride on the luggage cart to his room. The stories will last a lifetime."

For Heather MacLean, her life changed when she met the love of her life, Fred at a high school football game.

As a freshman at an all-girls school who had never dated a boy before, Heather was at her first high school football game the night she met Fred.

"One of the few older boys I knew from the all-boys school next door called my name so he could introduce me to someone inquiring. "Heather this is Fred. Fred, this is Heather," and that was the very moment my life changed forever. He was larger than life from the moment I met him to the last telephone call I had with him on 9/9/01. He stood 6 foot 5 inches tall, had the most mesmerizing beautiful green eyes that you would ever want to see, the darkest of brown hair, the most genuine of smiles, and the character that would match a king."

She said Fred never did anything average or normal. Everything he did had to be better than exceptional, and he strove to be a perfectionist. "From being the best son...the best friend, the best listener, to giving the best honesty, to be the best partier, best boyfriend, to sending the best flowers and finding the best maple fudge..." Heather's list of Fred's bests goes on. "He not only longed to be the best...he was just that...the best."

In 2000, Heather was with Fred when they found a sign while visiting his favorite place in the world where his family had a summer home in New Hampshire. The sign said Do What You Love. Love What You Do. Heather said that little did she know while they hammered that sign on that amazing tree that the quote would be forever synonymous with everything Fred did and lived by.

Heather's Mom, Barbara MacLean, also wrote me an e-mail about her "son" Fred.

"The first day he came into my kitchen he called me Mom", she wrote. "Every time he came home from New York he came to visit and would always say 'Mom, play Amazing Grace for me.' We would go to the piano, and he would sing all the verses."

On New Year's Eve, Barbara MacLean remembers how handsome Fred looked as they got ready for a party. She remembers how he loved the gift of a white terry cloth robe Heather had given him and how he put it on over his clothes and wore it all over the house.

Just a day before 9/11 happened, Fred called Barbara to talk to her as she was enroute to her sister's funeral. "He said 'I wish I was there to put my arms around you during this sad time,'" and she said his just saying that helped her feel his arms around her.

"How could I have known that the next day, he would be gone. Why did his final words to me end with "Do you know how much I love you and Lee Lee?" (Heather's nickname).

This final photo I found among the memorial photos posted by family and friends on tribute boards for Fred following the 9/11 attacks. It's one of his nephew on the anniversary of the September 11 attacks. As I look at this photo, I think of the profound loss of Fred and the 2,995 others who were lost that day, and wonder about the legacy and memories that each of us leaves behind.

The hard part about learning about someone as wonderful as Fred is realizing that I will never meet him because of that awful September day that is burned into each of our collective memories.

But for those who lost Fred that day, 9/11 isn't just a national event of losing people in general, but it is a day that they lost their friend, son, and love.

I think it's important to share the day of the loss of Fred in the words of his friends because it's a testament not only to the profound sense of loss for all the people who died, but a memorial to the fact that we each go on after a loss and grieve in different ways. It's not pleasant or easy, but the important thing is that we do go on, if for no other reason than to honor those we have lost.

Heather wrote to me "Everything I thought would be in my life forever, changed forever, with a glance to a television 5 years ago. It is a loss so deep that words can't even come close to expressing the significance of my world's loss that day. To lose someone that you love so publicly, makes the healing process almost impossible...It shows its horrifying face when you are watching the news, seeing a movie, reading a paper or a magazine. It comes up in dinner conversations and is forwarded to you in e-mails. That deep, all-consuming, soul-filling grief is felt each time I hear or see anything that has to do with that disastrous day, immediately takes me back to the morning of 9/11/01."

"I was so blessed to be given 10 years with someone so unmatchable in my life, and I continue to be blessed; I have the very best guardian angel walking by my side, every step of the way...while on this earth and after," Heather said.

For John, he wrote that he often wonders what Fred was thinking when he knew he wouldn't make it out of the towers, or was there even time to think about that?

"Unfortunately over the years we had seen a lot of tragedy with the loss of some close friends, and we had actually talked about death," John said. "I grieved for Fred as anyone would, and as many did. I still miss him and get a little sad, but at the same time I smile and chuckle every time I think of him. That might sound a little weird, but if you knew him, you would understand."

Fred's lessons for John didn't end with his death, John said. "I think I was stuck in cruise control until I met Fred. I gained a greater realization that I was missing out on a lot in life. After Fred passed away, I feel I finally realized many of the secrets to life. It was as if my eyes had finally opened. Fred had been teaching me the whole time to fully live and appreciate life; and I finally got it after he was gone."

Barbara, Heather's Mom, wrote:

"I will hold in my heart his boy-like giggle, his asking for me to play one more time "his" song, his twinkling green eyes, his patting the pillow and saying "come over here and sit by me, Mom", Barbara wrote. "I look at that seat where he sat and feel his long lanky arm around me still. He and I were buddies and I will forever miss him and forever love him. He was bigger than life. A life that can't be snuffed out, as his spirit shines on in all who loved and knew him."

A note from Jules of PlanetJules: This tribute to Fred Cox started because a friend told me about a massive project by bloggers to honor each of those lost on 9/11 with an individual tributed -- called 2,996 -- and that she was disappointed because as of that day, her friend Fred Cox had yet to be assigned someone to honor him.

My only aim initially was to help a friend by signing up for this project, and to specifically choose Fred so my friend's pain would be somehow comforted by knowing he was not forgotten.

But what I got back was so much more. It is an honor to take the time to get to know someone like Fred, and to try and do justice and honor a man who so many people loved, adored, respected and ultimately lost, but whose character lives on in the hearts of many.

For a full listing of the blogs honoring all 2,996 of those lost on 9/11, go to http://www.dcroe.com/2996/or click on the title of this post.

Here are some additional links to sites to learn more about Fred:

CNN: http://www.cnn.com

From The New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2001/11/23/national/portraits/

The New York Times Memorial Page: http://www.legacy.com/nytimes/GB/GuestbookView

Fred's Memorial on The Fred Society website, of which he was a member:
http://www.fredsociety.com/cox.html

Also, a scholarship fund has been set up for the memory of Fred at the University of Arizona, where Fred graduated:

Fred Cox, Jr. Scholarship Fund
Karl Eller Center, Berger Entrepreneurship Program
McClelland Hall, Room 202
1130 East Helen
P. O. Box 210108
Tucson, AZ 85721-0108

Thanks to all of Fred's friends who took the time to help me write this tribute, who were willing to go back to that dark day to remember someone so wonderful. All of Fred's friends and family will be in my thoughts and prayers for their continued healing.

Peace,

Jules

You're Not Alone.

There are still rough days, as there will always be for months and possibly years to come.

As of tomorrow, it will be two months since the birth and loss of our son Jacob.

As my friend Teri said when she called me "You're doing normal." Normal is good in that as she said, if I wasn't having down times and up times too, she'd be worried about me.

I have a project that waits for me.

It's a box of everything from Jacob's birth and loss. It's all the cards friends and family sent me, the medical diagnosis, the trinkets, the photos and other mementos.

They all need to find their way to where they need to be. I bought a scrapbook, and it needs to go in. I need to print the pictures and a copy of his full birth story and put those in too.

It's actually beginning to nag at me that I haven't done it.

But this weekend is my 9/11 project. I'll post it here as well as on my regular public blog for the 2,996 project I signed up for.

As many of you know, I've chosen to blog about Fred Cox, Kristen's friend. Just researching him and his life, and receiving the very personal e-mails from his friends has helped a great deal to put my grief aside for a while and focus on someone else.

As much as it is difficult, it's also healing to be reminded that other people lose loved ones every day. It's been five years, and they've gone on. I can only thank them too for their contribution to my healing.

Thanks for all your love and support.

Good vs. Bad

It's amazing to me how much my attitude on any given day can give me either a better outlook on the world, or a worse one.

I honestly believe that sometimes one's day can be brightened just by trying to see the little good things in the world when the worst seems to be happening.

But this morning on my bus ride to work, a little girl who looks to be in the first grade -- and her Mom with her infant baby -- all got on the bus as they do at 50th & Federal, and got off a few blocks away. The little girl as she boarded the bus noticed me, as I've smiled at her in the past. This morning she smiled at me and said "good morning."

She's beyond cute. Her Mom does her hair every day, and she wears pink head to toe, including a large Barbie backpack with a water bottle in it, which looks like if you overloaded it, she'd be stuck on her back like a turtle flipped on its shell. You can tell by looking at this little family that they are happy together. Mom, who has two little ones, smiles often and speaks kindly to her girls. Given what I've been through, it's hard to see parents talk sternly to their children -- even if I can understand they're tired, or the kid is being particularly demanding. When I see someone give their children love and attention, it just warms my heart.

Then there was the punk rocker kid who gets on closer to 38th & Navajo. The new bus driver almost missed him today since he had to take a detour, and I mentioned it to him so he could honk at the kid down the block since the bus missed the stop. Punk rocker kid is about 16 or so, dressed head to toe in black, and wears his bangs completely covering his eyes, so you can't see the first thing of what he looks like from his nose up. But as he ran to to catch the bus today, he smiled and thanked the bus driver for stopping. I love it when I see kids like that who are dressed to impress with their rebellion, but are just good kids at heart.

Then there was the old guy with a missing leg who got on the bus with his friend. People in Denver move to help make space for him. I got up and moved the seats up out of the way so the driver wouldn't have to come back to do it. Small kindnesses on everyone's part. The guy in the chair thanked people for making room for him as he came on board.

I often ride the free 16th Street bus in the afternoon during my lunch hour. My favorite thing is listening to tourists talk about Denver. Sometimes when someone is trying to find something, I'll let them know where it is. I'll ask where they're from, and often it's Kansas City or some other Western/Midwestern town, and sometimes it's someone like the Indian man who asked me where "Arapahoe" was who I had to stop and think a minute because of the way he mispronounced it. I love helping people get a good image of Denver, because it's my adopted city, and the people who welcomed me here did all the same things I did.

The very first time I bought a Denver map, I stood on a street corner and looked at it, trying to figure out my bearings. A man on a bike stopped and said "Can I help you find something?" and I said "No, I'm just new to Denver and wanted to find out where I am on this thing." To which he answered "Welcome to Colorado!"

There are times like this that I'm glad I ride the bus to work. Yes, we get the occasional guy who wants to ride for free, or worse, at 9 a.m., seeing someone waver on board as they get on the bus reeking of liquor at that hour. But generally speaking, I run into good people on the bus every day.

This is a good town. With good people in it. I only wish that more people here would take that pride.

Because it's all true.

The Belief-O-Matic

The past few days I've bookmarked Wikipedia on my computer and used it several times.

I am continually amazed by the amazing amounts of information you can get from the Internet, especially when you don't have a nice old copy of the Encyclopaedia Brittannica laying around the house like we did when we were kids.

For example, I couldn't remember what year (or what century for that matter) The Schism happened between the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic church (The year was 1054). The Reformation wouldn't start to happen for Protestantism until 1517, initiated inadvertently by Martin Luther, who wasn't looking to split the Church, only wanted it to change.

A friend was using the Belief-O-Matic online, and had come up high scoring for believing in many of the same things as Eastern and Greek Orthodox, but wasn't sure what Eastern Orthodox was.

In my travels several years ago, Brian and I went to Greece, including the Greek Island of Samos off the coast of Turkey. The island had the town of Pythagoria (named after the Greek mathematician/philosopher Pythagoras who came up with with the theory of a2+b2=c2, which is a proof that the sum of the squared two sides of a 90% angle equals the square root of the hypotenuse).


Among the other interesting sites on this island was the small, lone, almost toy-sized chapel that sat at the top of the hill between Samos Town and Pythagoria (that's me walking around the side of it). This was fitting since we were also driving the lone rental car on the island, also toy-sized, which had the feel of a car that should have hamsters running it.

We also stumbled upon a monestery, where we gave a few Euro cents to see their chapel that had been built in a cave. It was so small a single person could stay in the one room at a time.

As a result of our travels, I learned that The Greek Orthodox church is also a split off of the Roman Catholic Church. I had no idea that the two were so similar until we went into their cathedrals and churches in Greece.

In the past, when I've done the Belief-O-Matic test, I've come up more Bahai, since I clicked on a different answer for my belief in some of the fundamental beliefs of God and his personal or impersonal involvement in my life. This time, I came up a high match with Mainline to Liberal Protestants, and a very close match for Quakers.

Now I'm going to have to go to Wikipedia and find out more about the Quakers!

So what are you? This test will tell you: Just click on the title and it'll take you to Belief-O-Matic. It take a few minutes, and you have to give yourself a chance to really think things through, but I thought it was well worth it.

I Can Hardly Wait to Be Old

Part of me just looks forward to the day when I've seen enough that I can just be like Gram -- like someone who's lived on an island in the Caribbean, and there's just a "Don't worry. Be happy." vibe to everything I do.

Something surprised me today. Not "shocked out of my mind surprised", but it just sort of took me off guard. I was part of a conversation that I thought was funny. I was flip about something, and before I knew it, I was told I was being "presumptuous."

Now I don't really care about what was said. It was a small blip. But what surprised me was how one little tiny conversation could be blown out of proportion, and how quickly I got sucked into having to defend my words. We all presume. Any time we tell someone they're being presumptuous, we'll find that we are in fact, guilty of the same thing. I haven't found an exception to that rule yet.

I love writing. I love the fact that I have a wit, even if I'm not always witty. By that I enjoy using my words, and if I can be funny at the same time, that's a bonus. I blog because it's better than keeping a journal. My mind works faster than my hands, and my bad penmanship doesn't come into play. Plus, the computer has spellcheck.

But sometimes my smart mouth comes out through my fingers, and people misunderstand me. The downside of the written word is that you have to be good enough at it to try and capture nuances that would normally be picked up in the spoken word as "tone."

I remember one of my grandmas -- Grandma P. -- who more than once said "oh honey, that's nothing to get excited about."

Gram had been around the block a few times. That happens, even if you live a relatively sheltered life, if you live to be 93 like she did. Sooner or later you have to leave the house to go to the grocery store, and there's always an adventure if you leave the house.

I find as I get older I get less worked up about things. I don't care so much about whether I'm right, so much as I care about being able to express my thoughts -- and I'm more than happy to hear others'. I'm genuinely interested in asking people about their opinions, but the most important part isn't the opinion -- it's the reasoning behind it. Sometimes people's views are skewed by their geography, upbringing, or simple personality. I know I have my set of bizarre circumstances that all knit together to become my life and my personality, what are yours?

I don't really think I want to get old. There's a part of me that looks forward to the next conversation that challenges me, or the next opinion that makes me wonder and really think "how did they get to the point where they think THAT is ok/normal/moral?".

No, I don't really mean that I want to get old and say I've seen it all. I suppose the day I've seen it all will be the day I die. But it would be cool to be so knowing, so experienced, that I can wave something off and not look like a snob, but like an old lady who like my Gram, had seen it before, and just wasn't going to get that worked up about it.

Dreams of Fred

Last night I started doing research for a project I'm doing to honor the victims of 9/11.

I was assigned Fred Cox, an investment banker who worked on the 104th floor of one of the towers of the World Trade Center.

I chose Fred because he's a friend of a friend of mine, and she knows one of his former girlfriends, so I e-mailed her last night to ask if she wouldn't mind sharing whatever she wants to with me about her friend and her loss.

After that, I started researching Fred on the Internet. I found a lot of information about him (I'll share it later, as it won't get published until 9/11 of this year) in various memorials, and found some info on his girlfriend at the time of his death.

I went to bed with Fred's life and his family's loss heavy on my mind and in my heart. I only knew one person in real life who lost a sister in the Trade Center, and I didn't know her very well and had never met her sister. The thoughts and feelings surrounding his loss swirled around me as I thought of the profound hole he's left in the hearts and minds of those who loved him.

I ended up dreaming about Fred last night. We were in Heaven, and it looked a lot like Greenwich Village in New York City. Fred was going door to door while I waited on the street, as he encouraged all the people to come out and talk to me. I realized at some point that I wasn't here on Earth -- that each door he was knocking on belonged to different victims of 9/11.

I tried to tell Fred that they wouldn't be able to call me or e-mail me since they were dead, but it didn't seem to bother Fred. I was there visiting, and he figured he could get some people out to talk to me.

It's hard to know what to make of the dream, except that the few things I picked up on from Fred was that he was a good guy who was just trying to help me out with my project.

I only hope I'm up to the task of honoring him as he so richly deserves.

Where Do You Stand?

If you click on the title, "Where Do You Stand?", you'll find a fun little test to see where you stand on a few issues, and once you're done, it'll tell you if you're a Centrist, Left, Right, Libertarian (little government) or Statist (lots of government.

Surprisingly, mine says I'm a "Centrist" -- It says "CENTRISTS espouse a "middle ground" regarding government control of the economy and personal behavior. Depending on the issue, they sometimes favor government intervention and sometimes support individual freedom of choice. Centrists pride themselves on keeping an open mind, tend to oppose "political extremes," and emphasize what they describe as "practical" solutions to problems.

Now, I'm only surprised because I thought I was more liberal than that. I'm not much of a Libertarian, because I do believe Government by definition belongs in people's lives, because we should be part of the governance of a country, and that a civilized one takes care of its old, sick, poor and young.

I'm not a "Statist" because I also believe that if you're not in a vulnerable group, you should work your butt off and make money to help take care of the old, sick, poor and young.

One of the topics that came on a board I belong to relates to the politicization of issues, like environmentalism -- and why the Left has commandeered that issue to be their own. To me, that's a no-brainer, only because I've never met a Republican who worked for Greenpeace, and until I do, they just don't have the argument that they're "for the environment".

It's not to say that I agree with everything Greenpeace does, or that they own the environment, or that to work for that organization you have to be a Left-wing wacko. It's only to say that one of the biggest environmental lobbies is most likely 99.9% inhabited by liberal folks who believe the planet must come first, and I've never met a Republican who believes that the planet comes before the right to drive it into the ground.

As a result of this whole conversation, which of course has plenty of people like me who don't fit any particular mold (33% or more of us are considered "Centrist", which I take to mean a variety of views that could be considered a mish-mash of Left and Right views), I was pleased to see that many of us, even when we consider ourselves one thing, are actually middle of the roaders.

The other thing that got me thinking, was how with each generation in my family, a variety of philosophies on government have emerged.

My grandparents were conservative. Now, part of that is the fact that in the 1940s and 1950s as they were having their families and raising them, white middle-class folks like Blanche, Karl, Gwladys (no that's not a typo) and Walt didn't have much interaction with people of color, gay people, or pretty much anyone that wasn't "like them." They raised their Lutheran kids, went to work, and had larger family trees with more branches and leaves than one can imagine in this day and age.

They were never faced with "different" so they didn't have to really think about whether gay rights were important to them, because gay people stayed in the closet. They didn't think about black people unless they ran into them at a store. They didn't care much for them because they didn't see the injustice. Injustice and its residents were neatly packed on "the other side of the tracks".

My parents took their lives to a new level in a new time. As young adults in the early 1960s, they married and left the country to be missionaries in Brazil (a noble thing to do, go spreading the message of Martin Luther (not MLK Jr.) to the Catholic masses of Brazil). They largely missed the tumult of the 1960s, as they left for Brazil in 1962, just a year before JFK was shot, and didn't return home for anything but short furloughs until 1972.

Before they left, however, my folks knew a black couple in Minnesota near where my Dad was going to seminary. They had a picnic with them in the park, and my Mom said she remembered how people stared at them because my folks were having lunch with "colored folks". Minnesotans probably didn't get their knickers in a twist about it like they would in The South, but they sure noticed it.

But even for my parents, it was one thing to be friends with a black person -- it was quite another to marry someone who was black.

It became readily apparent to me as I was growing up, when a close black friend of my older brother's became interested in my sister. They dated briefly, and it didn't last. But I remember my parents voicing their concern over the racism my sister would face, and over how they would be received in anything but the larger cities that might be more accepting. I was also given a similar speech by my own father, who would later be much more liberal -- when I dated a Jewish guy in college. "How will you raise your kids if you get married?" my Dad asked me.

Well, I'd been on a few dates with him -- I had no plans for marriage anyway, but I told my Dad that that was the least of my concerns.

In the end, I know my parents were probably looking out for their kids, but there was an undercurrent of social pressure and dare I say racism.

The next generation is more liberal on the whole. Out of the five kids in my family, I suspect, though I won't say for certain, that one is a rather moderate Republican, three of us are moderate Democrats, and my Socialist brother leans ever-so-gently more to the left than the rest of us.

Despite my parents' Republican leanings, and most of that related to their views on social issues due to their Christianity and generation, all of us have become even more liberal than they ever were. Even my Republican sibling is more Centrist than my parents ever were.

As this discussion over politics and issues continued, I realized that there is no guarantee that any of us, no matter which way we lean politically, will produce children of like minds.

Personally, I just plan on naming my next son "Alex P. Keaton" to get the shock of the Republican I'll have over with.

Just kidding of course.

Just remember -- no matter what you are -- plan on your kids being different than you. Personally, I think it's what keeps the world in balance.

And as a Centrist, that's a good thing.

My Ideas of God

Today I finished reading the book "Why Bad Things Happen To Good People" by Harold S. Kushner, a rabbi and author.

An easy read -- in that his writing is outstanding -- I find myself wanting to read the book a second time to try and grasp the meaning of everything he said in the book.

Being raised Lutheran as I was, I believed for much of my life that God was omnipotent, omnipresent, and perfect.

I was also raised to believe that while God doesn't make bad things happen to good people, he "allows" it to happen.

Well, 3 miscarriages and the loss of our Jacob at 5 months to Trisomy 18 made me reconsider this idea of God as being perfect. After all, it's one thing to "allow" something bad to happen to us once, or even twice -- but the loss of 4 babies -- now that's just bad God Management, in my view. I mean, it's one thing to not pay particular attention to our first or second pregnancy -- but you'd think that a God who was really all that concerned with me would spare me the loss of a third and fourth child, dontcha think?

I sure as heck do.

What amazes me yet is that the book I read helped me come closer to God because it explained to me the fact that we do live in a world of randomness, and one where God can't play favorites with "good people" (let's just assume I'm one of them). It went further to say that God can't intercede in what happens to us. He, like me, is furious and mournful over our losses, but the "why" remains elusive forever.

The amazing ending of the book really talks more about how we respond to tragedy. That it isn't our fault, God isn't testing us or punishing us -- it really is about making sense of what really is a random event that just happened to hit us by allowing God to comfort us in our loss and misery.

I still have a lot more from the book to digest and consider. I just think I'm in the midst of a shift in my thinking about God entirely. Thanking Him for my existence and for the good that comes from this life, that is what I'm taking from it so far.

I'm not just saying "well, I'll just see the good in Jacob's life, no matter how short," because I'm not even close to being able to say that without sounding and feeling like I'd be in denial of my pain and anger over his loss.

But I do know that there is a great deal to be learned from this experience -- now that it's happened. And maybe a shift in my perception of what life really means is just part of it, including the God Part.

You see, for many years of my adult life, I wandered far from God. Months passed without a prayer, years passed without me going to church. I do feel that my relationship with God hit an all-time low point after my second miscarriage, because I was SURE that God didn't care about me all that much if he let me go through this again.

But for my third loss, I felt that something had to be wrong for us to go through this yet again. So I started going to church and tried to make peace with God. I tried to focus on the goodness of my marriage and my life on this earth, and how it would be childless, but still meaningful.

Then came Jacob, and the renewed promise of parenthood. No one could have prepared me for the past 2 months of my life, as we faced his loss and ultimately had to bear it.

But again, instead of turning away from God, I turned toward Him for comfort, guidance and solace. And the odd thing is, there has been an amazing amount of peace in all this messiness of birth, death, and grief.

No one has to tell me that it isn't my fault. I know that. No one has to tell me that it serves some purpose. I doubt that. Sometimes things just happen.

But like Kushner's closing statements about reaching out, not feeling alone in our grief, and letting God and our community comfort us -- it's the beginning of healing so that we can honor our lost loved ones by the way we live our lives into the future, and to be a testament to others.

That's about all I can ask for.

Maybe someday, that's where we'll be.

Cathedral Madness

Any question I had about my sanity was answered today: I am officially nuts.

This small portion of a quilt in the picture is one I started today -- it is called the Cathedral Window pattern. I've had this quilt idea for a long time -- one that I wasn't sure how to do, because the book I have had very bad instructions, so I delayed starting it. It's largely handsewn, which means my new Singer won't get much of a workout on it.

Today I started this with just the idea that I'd try it out, once I found a decent website with instructions that I could make sense of.

Before long, I realized I have to make this quilt -- and this one is for ME. So, online I went and I found a good deal on the red background (Kona cotton, the best on the market) on Hancock Fabrics.com, and I bought 27 more yards, since I have only 3.

Brian loves it because it's not geometric, but has a round and varied pattern to it. I plan to use all the different colors of fabric I already have for the "window" portion, so it's going to be wild.

I LOVE this pattern. It's going to take 30 yards of material (most queen size quilts take in the neighborhood of 10-15), but boy, isn't it worth it?

I Love The Smell of Bug Spray

Friday was a great day. I went to work and did a presentation for a job interview I've been waiting for for some time. It went really well -- and then I was off at noon, and home to change and get my pack together. Brian and I were out of the house by 1:30 and on the road to The Holy Cross Wilderness south of Vail, Colorado.

We made it up a Jeep trail to the trailhead for Sopris & Brady Lakes, and found a good campsite near a smaller unnamed lake.



It started raining as we were putting up our tent, but by 5 p.m. I was sitting next to the fire under a tarp with bug spray stinking us both up, and I thought "Wow, it's 5 and I already smell like a camper." I do love the icky parts of camping -- it reminds me of the ease of life in the city with flushing toilets, electricity, and the protection from the elements. It continued to rain all night long. Fortunately in the morning we got up and it had stopped raining long enough for us to take a hike up towards the lakes.

To say the trail was terribly maintained is an understatement. I suspect NO ONE had done anything for trail maintenance since it had been built. The picture of me you see here is of the creek that we followed, mostly using deer trails after the human trail had long disappeared. We ended up hiking up to about 11,500 feet of elevation. Let me say this -- the sky is even bluer than it is down here at a Mile High, the sun is stronger, and the air is VERY thin, so every step requires more breaths to try to grab whatever oxygen is available.


We stopped for lunch at one point, realizing that we weren't going to find either Sopris Lake or Brady Lake -- we were a bit lost, but stayed by this creek, and found this beautiful waterfall.

As we headed back down, we had no idea where we had come from, as we had wandered around for some time looking for the trail that was long gone. So, we descended slowly, following the creek down the valley so we could find the trail again. Treacherous terrain -- very treacherous. I slipped several times because the woods were so wet, that every log we had to climb over was slick as snot.

But, we made it. We crossed the creek several times, and made it past a large rock cliff that if we hadn't stayed near the creek we would have had a tough time getting down. Several times the stories that play out with lost people in the woods went through my head. The #1 Hiker's credo is to STAY ON THE TRAIL. Well, we didn't do that.

The good news is we knew where we were, generally, and just heading downstream for almost an hour finally lead us to what looked to be the trail. I haven't been that psyched about something so seemingly small in a long time. We'd be ok.

Of course Brian never worried. I'm the worrier. But then that's the way it always in our lives together. I worry, Brian says "It'll be ok."

And it usually is.

Getting Through

This is a picture I took of Jacob. I edited it to make it more of a sketch.

Oh how we miss our son.

The thing that really gets me through this, and what I told Brian last night as we talked on the porch during the storm -- is that I know Jacob would not want us to quit living over his loss. I realized today that sometimes it's just going to be hard. Sometimes like these days, it's just going to suck. Period.

I think the hardest part about losing a baby is how people don't seem to know what to say, and sometimes they say nothing.

Silence is absolutely the hardest thing to take.

Just an "I'm sorry," is all it takes. Some people in our lives have gone missing and it's painful. It's hard because we don't feel we can just call up and say "Hey, where have you been?" because it would just make them feel bad, and that's not what we want to do. We just want the opportunity to share Jacob's life, and some of the pain of our loss of him.

He was a person. A person we met, loved, and cared for in the short time we had him in our arms. He was beautiful and perfect in his own way. He had a second toe that was longer than his first like me, and he looked like his Daddy, Grandpa M., and uncles in his face.

I'm not saying this just for the reader's benefit for us. But please know that anyone you know in the future just wants to hear that you're there for them. If you can be.

The Love of My Life

This picture is of Brian and me in Paris last September. We're facing The Louvre, with the Place de la Concorde (the gold-tipped obelisk), and the Arc de Triomphe behind it. Behind that and out of view is La Defense.

The French are really good at making everything beautiful, orderly, and symmetrical. Their control over their environment with an eye for aesthetics is nothing short of amazing.

You go to Rome, and things are older and messier. Cobblestone streets wind around, ending at a piazza, cathedral or some ruins. Nothing is square, or linear. Forget round, unless you're at The Collisseum.

Our lives lately has been less Paris and more Rome. Less order, more chaos.
Less City of Light and more Eternal Frustration City.

Brian went out and played disc golf with his friends today, while I stayed home and worked on my quilt projects. When he got home, I wanted to go to dinner, but then realized the restaurant I wanted to go to -- LaFonda's -- I haven't been to since I was pregnant. While some days I'd feel like taking on the challenge, the mere thought of it reduced me to tears.

As the thunder & lightning storm started, I asked Brian if we could go out on the porch and just sit for a bit. We ended up cuddled up together watching the storm, as it started, then seemed to slow, and then started up again.

We talked about Jacob, and the holes in our hearts. We talked about how hard it's been, and how suddenly these past couple of days it feels harder instead of easier.

Through tears and hugs, we sat and just talked and comforted each other. We started talking about when we got married, and I said "Well, I think we've lived up to the whole "sickness & health, richer, poorer, through good times and bad part," to which he had to agree. Then I said "Thank God I didn't say "obey" because I would have failed that completely." Laughs.

There are few people on the planet who I have been friends with for a long time. Brian I've known for 25 years of my life. The day I met him I fell for him. Despite our early ins and outs, ups and downs, breakups and reunions, when we married 6 years 2 months 24 days ago, I married the one person I truly belong to, and who belongs to me.

Our lives aren't just our losses. But they've been true tests of our love, commitment and ability to lean on each other.

Lots of days, like lately, we're Rome...but someday I can't wait to get back to Paris.

Running To Stand Still

That song title, "Running to Stand Still" by U2 (Joshua Tree album) kept playing in my head several times. It's amazing how a song that applies to your situation just starts playing in your head like it's on a continuous loop.

I was frustrated today. I got up early to start sewing and ran into some big snags.

I have a new machine, and I forgot exactly how to adjust the tension and get it just right before I topstitch a quilt -- last weekend I actually read the directions first, so I had better luck.

Well, today I topstitched almost a quarter of the quilt, then saw the mess underneath -- nothing but puckers, puckers and more puckers.

So, I tore it all out and started over. Three to four hours lost.

Then, I tried to fix it, but only managed to adjust the tension the wrong way. It was pulling too much on the bottom -- so again, puckers.

Now I was mad. Let's just say there were more puckers on me than the blanket by the time I got this far.

Finally, I broke out the even feed presser foot. You don't have to know what that is, only that it feeds the fabric layers through the machine with a special tool.

Voila!

I've been sewing a lot late this afternoon, and finally have quilt #2 almost top-stitched.

OK, I'm not standing still anymore.

Love, Actually

It's taken several weeks for me to get through the movie, "Love, Actually". Not for any reason other than I have been distracted by other projects or something to do, and suddenly I'd hit pause. Again.

This morning I saw down and watched the movie. It stars one of my favorite British actors, Colin Firth of "Bridget Jones' Diary" fame, and his co-star Hugh Grant, who never fails to do a good job of playing an irresistably cute Englishman.

Emma Thompson is in the movie, along with Kiera Knightly, and a host of other talented actors. It's a chick flick, I'll admit, but it was wonderful.

I loved the beginning of the movie as the scene starts in Heathrow Airport, with loved ones greeting each other, and Hugh Grant narrarates about how so many people see hate and badness in the world, but if you look around, you'll see a lot of "Love, Actually."

That alone had me, but the end of the movie also ends at Heathrow, and it's just beautiful. The closing scenes had me crying, for the joy of love, and the sadness of love lost.

So many people I know are paying attention to the war and strife in the world. It's hard to turn away from it, and perhaps we shouldn't. But it's ok to turn away for a while, and try to see the love that exists in the world, in our own families, among our friends.

And, if you haven't seen the movie, put it on your Netflix queue, and get "Love Actually."

Susan

My friend Susan has been through what I've been through. Only later.

She called tonight to see how we're doing. She knows that after a month the rest of the world has returned to normal, and wanted to know how we were feeling.

Susan is pregnant -- due the week after we were. She's living moment to moment with her own angst over her pregnancy. She lost a baby at almost full term, so she's been in our shoes, and then some. I'll never forget the baby announcement of her Madeline -- "Born silently..."

Susan is one of those people who makes a room feel better when she enters it. The world is OK because Susan is there. The day I met her, she came to my house to have us wives meet -- and I knew we would be friends forever.

We've both had our trials since then with our losses, and it's just brought us closer. Tonight as I talked with her about our experience, we swapped stories a lot, and it just felt good to have someone who's been there, and is willing to talk about it, pain and all...

Thanks to Susan, for being such a wonderful person. And pray for her little one, as I hope hers is healthy and born on time, with as little fanfare as possible, medically speaking. I just pray a few months from now we get a perfectly healthy, perfectly boring birth announcement. That's what I wish for her.