A Year Without Ties

"No matter how far you travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car." 

- August Strindberg

When I was a kid in elementary school, my mom worked as a bookkeeper at a furniture store that was just a couple of blocks down the hill from my school, close enough that I walked there every day after school. I got to hang out in Mom's office and "help" her for an hour or so until my dad stopped and picked me up on his way home from work. I remember Mom letting me stamp the backs of checks ... don't laugh ... being a big enough kid to hold the big metal stamper thing and stamp those checks was a big deal to me. I made paper clip necklaces, played with the old metal arm-operated adding machine, separated rubber bands by size and drew pictures for Mom and all of her co-workers.

Having the run of all those office supplies was like a dream come true for me as a little kid, especially on the days when the manager of the store would send me home with a bag of office goodies, including my most favorite office goody in the entire universe ... a giant-sized pink eraser. And when I say giant-sized, I do mean giant-sized ... those suckers were about the size of a modern-day iPhone and as thick as my favorite Nancy Drew mystery. Yep, those erasers were definitely my favorite of all the office goodies for sure. Those giant-sized pink erasers could erase any mistake I made ... on paper anyway.

I'd wager that many of us, perhaps even most of us, have times we wish we could erase ... times when we would give all we have for a giant-sized pink eraser that could magically wipe away the things we don't want on the paper of our lives. Some lucky folks may only have moments they want to get rid of, but my guess is that many people have more than just moments ... many have hours, days, weeks, months or even years they wish they could erase from their lives and remove from their memory. Unfortunately, as much as I was there was, there's not a giant-sized pink eraser for real life. We make mistakes that can't be corrected. We inflict hurt that can't be healed. We say and do things to each other that leave marks and lines and scribbles all over our hearts ... marks and lines and scribbles that stay on our papers forever.

It took five decades for me to finally step out of the closet and tell the truth about who I am. Five decades of trying to be the person other people told me I was supposed to be. Five decades of living in fear of what would happen should I ever slip up and let the people I loved see the real me. Five decades of pretending to be someone I never was. Five decades of hiding. Five decades of worrying that someone would uncover my secret. Five decades of thinking there was something terribly wrong with me. Five decades before I understood that God loves me just the way I am. Five decades before I finally had the courage to be the real me. Five decades before I was able to do something I'd wanted to do for as long as I could remember ... wear ties and suspenders and not be ashamed.

The last time I wore a tie or suspenders was one year ago today ... a day I surely wish I could erase. What happened that day isn't important, nor does it matter to anyone but me. I can wish all I want that I could erase certain events of that day, but my wishing is nothing more than just that ... a wish. I wish I could turn back time or jump into another dimension in which erasing that day last year involved nothing more than snapping my fingers or waving my hand, but I can't. I miss my ties and suspenders a lot, but there's something I miss so very much more than the pieces of fabric or the metal snaps. I miss the real me ... the me who wasn't afraid ... the me who didn't hesitate to reach out ... the me who believed in myself ... the me who believed in others. Where the heck is that giant-sized pink real-life eraser when I need it, eh? Where is it indeed?

Oh, one more thing ... I did wear my Ellen/gangster/coolest shoes ever today. Hmmm ... maybe there's still a little of the real me left in there after all.

If I Should Die Before I Wake

My guess is that most people don't climb into bed each night and think "I wonder if I'll die while I'm sleeping tonight." I'd guess, too, that most people don't wake up and have their first thought of the day be "I wonder if today will my last day to live?" I am convinced that the thing we humans most take for granted is life itself. Rather than appreciating the gift of every single breath we take, every precious moment we have with those we love, every additional night we do indeed not die before we wake, we believe we will always have more time. More breaths. More moments. More nights. More days. More time.

In case you're newer to reading my blog, The Tree House officially turned 10 on February 19, 2018. A special thank you to those of you who messaged to remind me of the significance of reaching that particular milestone, even though my writing has waned greatly over the last year. Those of you who've been following my journey for a while may remember the post "Easier to Die" from January 1, 2013, without question the most difficult post I've written throughout those 10 years. In that post, I came clean about a couple of sort of big things in my life ... at least they're big to me anyway ... one of them being that I had come within minutes of committing suicide back in 2012. I had no idea at the time just how much that one post would change not only my life, but the lives of so many others as well.

I've learned many things in the five plus years since I first openly talked about my battle with depression and my plan to take my own life, not the least of which is that talking about death makes a lot of people very uncomfortable. At first I thought the uneasy feeling I sensed from others when I talked about reaching the point where I no longer wanted to live was because of my inclusion of the "s" word ... suicide. It didn't take me long, however, to understand that the feeling wasn't as much about me talking about my desire to end my life as it was about me talking about death in general. I quickly learned that we humans don't want to talk about death, be it our own or someone else's ... we don't want to talk about it and we really don't want to listen to anyone who does. And yet, despite our avoidance and our belief that we will always have more time ... more breaths, more moments, more nights, more days, more time ... death is inevitable for each one of us. 

Today my children and I attended a celebration of life service for a man who was one of the first people we met when we moved to Kansas City. A man who, along with his wife and two daughters, became our first real friends in a city where we knew no one. A man who welcomed us into his home when our house caught fire only two weeks after we moved in. A man who taught us the word "gadzooks" and who had an infectious laugh and an ever-present smile. A man who stood solidly behind me and my children as my marriage disintegrated. A man who treated us as family. A man who included us. A man who had a kind and gentle and compassionate heart for the marginalized, the weak, the lonely and the discarded people of the world. A man whose life was honored today by the people he impacted so deeply during his short 63 years on earth. A man who left behind a legacy of love ... love for God, love for his family, love for his friends, love for the people he worked with and love for people around the world.

I hugged Brad and Meghann and Barrett a little more tightly when they left to head back to their homes today, and my time on Skype with Matt and his family was a little longer and even more precious to me than usual. And as I end this day and ready myself for bed, one thought pulses through my mind ... if I should die before I wake, I hope and pray the legacy I leave behind will be one of love. A legacy of a love that isn't just heard in the words I say, but one that is seen ... one that is felt ... one that is proven in the life I live.

The Man I Met at Walmart

First things first ... to those of you who've written to inquire about how Max dog is recovering following his joyful romp through my fridge a couple of Saturdays ago and helping himself to a full container of delicious bacon-wrapped green bean bundles held together by wooden toothpicks, he's back to his normal no more pooping toothpicks self. I must agree with my son Bradley that Max's latest refrigerator raid does indeed prove that he has a stomach and intestines of steel. Seriously though, thank you for your concern about my big chocolate granddog and rest assured that the next time Maxie comes to stay with me, my fridge will be sporting a new child/Maxproof lock on the door.

I certainly don't consider myself to be rigid when it comes to planning out how I'm going to spend my time on the weekends, but there are certain things I pretty much have to make sure I allow time to do every Saturday or Sunday. You know ... semi-important things like making a trip to the store to buy food. Which, more often than not, ends up being trips plural because I go to different stores to buy different things, depending on which retailer has the best prices for the week. I'm guessing some of you are giving me a nod of affirmation right about now because you do the very same thing ... trot around to different stores to save a few bucks here and there, I mean.

On the Saturday that shall forevermore be known as "Max Dog Does Toothpicks Day," I hadn't exactly factored spending several hours of my day sitting at the emergency animal hospital into my schedule for the weekend. I should pause here and tell you that I do not like going to Walmart on Sundays, and I especially do not like going to Walmart late in the day on Sundays. Why, you ask? Going to Walmart on either day of the weekend is something no one in their right mind should ever even consider doing, you say? Hold the phone ... maybe I should retract that "someone in their right mind" part, especially as it applies to me. We all know I crossed that bridge a long, long time ago. But I digress way too far ... spending a chunk of my Saturday at the animal hospital meant that I put off going to Walmart until late in the day on Sunday, along with what seemed to be most of the population of Kansas City. 

By the time I was finally ready to check out, I was far, far away from happy camper land. I was tired, I was cranky and I just wanted to be done and go home. Of course there weren't enough checkout lanes open, so I chose what I hoped would be the quickest one, got in line and waited not so patiently behind the people ahead of me. It wasn't until I reached for the little divider stick thingy to put on the conveyor belt to separate my groceries from those of the person in front of me that I got a glimpse of the older gentleman in line behind me. I smiled a halfhearted smile and started unloading my groceries.

"I--I--I--I l--l--l--like y--y--y--your d--d--d--d--dog, m--m--maam," stuttered the man with the shaggy beard, worn clothing and faded felt hat. "H--h--h--he r--r--reminds m--m--m--m--me of--of--of o--o--o--our J--J--J--Jimmy. I--I--I b--b--b--b--bought h--h--him f--f--for m--m--m--my w--w--w--wife w--w--when sh--sh--she g--got s--s--s--s--sick."

"This little guy is a pretty good boy. He's my pal for sure," I said as I turned back to the task of getting my groceries out of my cart.

"J--J--J--Jimmy d--d--died on--on V--V--Val--Valentine's D--D--Day," the man said softly.

I turned and looked at the old man ... really looked at him ... and said, "I'm sorry for your loss. It's never easy to lose a furry friend."

A faraway look crossed his face as he said, "J--J--J--Jimmy j--ju--just cou--coul--couldn't g--g--go o--on w--w--w--wit--without h--her. H--h--he pa--pa--passed a--a w--w--week af--after my--my--my Cla--Clara."

I don't know if the gentleman could see them, but I sure felt the hot tears that began filling my eyes. As I blinked and blinked with the hope of stopping them, I noticed that the man only had one grocery item ... a frozen pie.

"Come go ahead in front of me," I said. "You only have that pie to pay for ... please go ahead of me."

"A--A--Are y--you s--s--s--sure?" he asked.

"Of course," I replied as I stepped aside so that he could get around my cart. "I'm sorry I didn't notice sooner ... come on up here and go ahead of me."

"Th--th--that's v--v--v--very ki--ki--kind of--of y--y--you, m--m--maam," he said with a gentle smile. "B--B--But I--I--I'll on--on--only g--g--go a--a--ah--ahead of--of y--y--y--you i--i--if y--y--you'll l--let m--m--me pe--pet yo--you--your d--d--dog," he said as his gentle smile broke into a full-on grin.

"Deal!" I said and lifted Ollie out of the shopping cart. Ollie being Ollie, he was more than willing to plant a big old kiss on the old man's chin when he leaned in to pet him. The man then went ahead of me in the line, paid for his frozen pie and stepped off to the side and waited for me to finish my own transaction. At first I thought the old guy was just waiting so that he could thank me again for letting him cut in front of me in line, but when I realized he intended to walk out of the store and toward my car with me ... well ... it creeped me out a little. Which is why I stopped as soon as we got outside and said, "Nice to meet you, sir ... have a good night," and then turned to walk away.

"Ma--ma--maam," the man stuttered. "Th--th--tha--thank y--you f--f--for tal--tal--tal--talking to--to--to m--m--me. I-I'm ta--ta--taking th--this p--p--pie to--to--to m--my f--f--fr--friend Bi--Bil--Bill. Doc--Doc--Doc--Doctors s--s--say h--he dos--dos--doesn't h--ha--have m--m--much t--t--time le--le--le--left a--an--and h--he l--l--l--l--loves p--p--pie. B--B--Bill sa--sa--sa--said h--he'd s-say he--he--he--hello t-to Cla--Cla--Cla--Clara a--a--and Ji--Ji--Jim--Jimmy f--for m--m--me wh--wh--when h--he g--g--g--gets t--to hea--hea--heaven if--if--if I--I--I'd co--co--come g--get h--h--h--him a--a--a p--p--pie."

"Stupid tears," I thought as I took off my glasses and brushed my sleeve across my eyes. It was a very short hop for me to go from being creeped out by the old man with the scraggly beard, worn clothes and faded felt hat to wrapping my arms around him and hugging him. Yep, right there just outside the door of Walmart in front of God and everybody else who saw me ... right there, I stopped and hugged that old man. I thanked him for talking to me. I thanked him for petting my dog. I thanked him for making me see.

"Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it." --- Confucius

Dogs and Wood

Back when he was in college, my son Brad thought it would be hilarious to teach his then newly acquired 2-year-oldish chocolate Labrador retriever Max to open the fridge and bring him a beer. And I'll admit it was pretty darn funny to watch big old Max dog mosey into the kitchen, easily open the refrigerator, secure a cold brew in his mouth and trot it back to Bradley. What my normally quite intelligent son failed to consider when he taught his beloved canine pal this nifty trick, however, was that someday he'd finish college and might actually have more than just beer in his fridge. God only knows how many times Brad's plan to have the coolest beer-fetching dog in town has backfired on him. That crazy brown dog has consumed everything from six-packs of Mountain Dew to entire rotisserie chickens (bones included) to leftover Chipotle burritos (foil included) to birthday cakes (chocolate included) to cheesy potatoes to turkey pot pies to lunch meat to just about any food or drink item you can imagine. Yep, that's right ... over the years, Max dog has come to fully embrace the unmitigated joy that comes from raiding the fridge, and remarkably, the sweet old brown dog has lived to bark about it.

For all the times Max has stayed with Ollie and me, including the three or so months he lived with us when Brad first moved to Maine, he has never once gotten into my fridge ... not the one in my house or the one in my apartment. Until last Saturday, that is. Brad and Shelby had asked if I could watch Max and his totally insane puppy brother Chewbacca while they moved from their apartment into a house, and I readily agreed to a granddoggie sleepover for Friday night. I have never in my life seen a dog love a boy the way Max loves Brad, so I've grown accustomed to the routine of the big dog sitting by the door for an hour or so whining and whimpering after his boy leaves. Such was the case last Friday evening when Brad and Shelby departed, but as he always does, he finally came and laid his head on my knee and let me love on him. And at bedtime, he trotted right into my room with me and Ollie, and went right to sleep. The next morning, old Maxie was just fine ... ate his food, went outside and pooped and peed ... even played chase with Ollie and Chewbacca for a while. If that dog was upset or stressed about his humans being gone or all the packing activity he'd witnessed the day before, he sure as heck didn't act like it. It wasn't until I came home after going to breakfast with my daughter that I discovered just how out of sorts Max truly was. 

When Meghann and I walked into my apartment, my first thought was, "That's weird ... there are Rubbermaid food containers in the living room. I wonder where those came from." I walked into the kitchen to hang up my keys and immediately knew exactly where those containers had come from ... the refrigerator door was wide open and all of my neatly packaged containers of leftovers were missing. Along with Meghann's leftover jambalaya, a brand-new large-size container of cream cheese and a box of baking soda. I quickly shut the fridge door and walked back into the living room and shouted, "Max you big turd, why did you open my fridge and eat my food? You've never done that before, buddy. What the heck? Bad dog getting into my fridge!" Max's reaction, of course, was to hunker down in the corner and give me the saddest "but I'm scared that Brad and Shelby are never coming back" look ever. Which then, of course, made me feel like the worst granddog Ghee ever because I'd yelled at him. 

I was ready to chalk up Max's raiding of my fridge to just one more time that Max had helped himself to food that he shouldn't have ... until I realized that one of the empty containers on the living room floor had been filled to the brim with a dozen or so bundles of bacon-wrapped green beans. Bundles that were held together by wooden toothpicks ... sharp wooden toothpicks that could easily puncture a dog's stomach or intestines if they happened to turn a certain way or get stuck in a certain position. I'll spare you the details of the several hours that Brad, Shelby and I spent in the veterinary hospital that afternoon, but I will tell you that if I were Ollie the wiener dog, I would still be pissed off about the whole experience. Why? Because Ollie and Max were both out in the apartment together while Meghann and I were gone, which meant I had no way of knowing if Ollie had participated in the toothpick binge-fest or not so my poor little guy had to endure the same not-so-fun stomach pumping ordeal as Max. Not one of his best Saturdays for sure, bless his sweet little wiener dog heart, or stomach, as the case may be. 

One thing that the refrigerator/toothpick-consuming/dash to the vet hospital experience on Saturday served to prove to me, however, was that Ollie really is the best dog in the entire universe. After the canine stomach emptying process was complete, the vet informed us that there wasn't one trace of fridge food in Ollie's stomach. Yep, that means my dog sat and watched another dog chow down on a vast smorgasbord of delightful dishes right in front of him and didn't eat one bite. No chicken livers, no cream cheese, no shrimp- and sausage-laden jambalaya, and thankfully, no green beans, bacon or toothpicks. I was so proud of him for standing strong and not succumbing to temptation that I took him straight to Starbucks when we were done and got him the biggest puppuccino he's ever had. Unfortunately for old Max dog, the contents of his stomach served only to prove his guilt as being the sole perpetrator of the crime. Max is fine now, by the way, following a few days of Brad and Shelby having to search through his poop on the hunt for the missing toothpicks.

I'm sure many of you are wondering why in the world I would choose to break my writing moratorium with a story about a dog opening a fridge and eating a dozen or so toothpicks. Truth be told, I'm sort of wondering the same thing myself. One would think if I were going to cautiously dip my toe into the writing waters again, I'd write something much more profound than a tale about toothpicks, stomach pumping and poop analyzing. But I believe that there are lessons to be learned and truths to be gleaned from every single experience in life. It was far from lost on me last Saturday that the small examination room where Brad, Shelby and I waited to find out if Max and Ollie would be OK was the same small room where I sat and held my beloved J.R. as he breathed his last breath on the morning of November 14, 2010. The lesson of treasuring every moment with those I love, be they human or canine, hung heavily in the tiny room last weekend. The truths I so easily forget ... that life can change in the blink of an eye ... that those I care so deeply for can be gone in an instant ... that in the end, when it's all said and done, the only thing that really matters is the way we take care of and love one another.

It's so easy to get caught up in all the stuff of life and forget what's most important. Sometimes it takes a sweet old chocolate dog gulping down a bunch of wooden toothpicks to make us remember that the most important thing we have in this life ... the very most important thing we can ever hope to have is each other. Appreciate every single moment, friends ... every single moment indeed.