Units of Measurement

Prologue:
My father rarely had toys at his house when I’d go to spend a weekend with him. He was always a collector of sorts. Encyclopedias, triangular prisms, top-notch recipes. I always admired his willingness to admit that he was in a constant process of learning.
One of the things I marveled at most was his miniature Galileo thermometer. A fascinating glass tube, especially to an adolescent.
The Galileo thermometer consists of a vertical glass tube, typically filled with water, and sealed glass bubbles containing colored water or alcohol. Each bubble is also attached to a specific mass (labelled with the temperature it represents) to calibrate its density (the amount of mass in a given volume). The temperature can be read by interpreting the distribution of these bubbles. The principle of buoyancy states that if an object is less dense than a liquid, it floats; and if the object is denser than the liquid, it sinks. 

When the temperature of the liquid in the glass tube begins to warm up, it expands; hence lowering the density of the liquid, as its mass now occupies a larger volume. The opposite occurs when the temperature cools (ie density of the liquid increases). Therefore, if a bubble becomes denser compared with the liquid, it sinks; and if less dense, it floats.
It’s appears simple from afar, but if you really get close to it, the science is fascinating.
I know what you’re thinking; -“I bet she breaks it!”.
Unfortunately, I never broke the Galileo.
I knew how much my father cared for it. I had no reason to want it broken. I enjoyed its presence in the apartment too.

Sunday:
Without realizing I was having a bad day, I found myself on the internet. A dreaded place to be in the wee hours of night. The kids had endowed me with their shopping list for science fair shenanigans due next month. Once I carted the necessary items, I took a look around. It’s very rare for me to have an “urge” to buy myself something. There is very little I ever find myself actually “needing”, so why buy it?
Tonight however, I am in search of my very own Galileo. I do not have a good reason. I just desire it. What a strange feeling. I settle on one that’s about 20 inches tall with a cherry case around it. It is similar to the one I remember my father having, but yet completely its own style. No-one else has to like it. This one will be important to me.

One week later, Sunday:
I’ve worked for a year on a big project for my honors capstone research at college. After multiple college board reviews and professor oversight I have been cleared to release my survey to the public. A huge evening for everyone around me. I feel like I’ve been waiting on this forever. Before I release it to the public, I send the survey link to all of my family members; even my little sister. Even if they don’t exactly understand my excitement over the project, they each applaud my efforts and choose to be in the first group of participants. Their answers are strictly anonymous and I will never be able to read them. Just knowing they shared involvement in my work fills my heart to the brim. Maybe this is what pride feels like? But, I can’t be certain. I was sick with what felt like the bubonic plague a few days before.
My text tone sounds with the response of my last family member. Pride is short lived and expectations are hell. My heart sinks as I read the words of my father telling me that he has nothing to contribute to my project.

Suddenly I’m 8 again admiring his little Galileo on the table.
I wonder what it’s like to be that fragile. To only exist under the law of constant, consistent protection. In the deepest part of my heart, the glass inside me rattles against the incoming cold. My delicate is busted and the precious liquid is seeping. I’ll surely never be able to measure emotion correctly again. Maybe this is female overreaction? Disappointment, however, is no stranger to this system. It was never about the answers of my family....it was knowing they cared enough to partake in it for me.

(Today) AKA 3 days later:

I receive notice that there’s an extra large package waiting for me at the post office. I miss the open window hours, but they leave it in a parcel locker so that I can still pick up my inconveniently sized box after work. I spoke to my survey mentor, in the 3 days since its release we’ve had 112 participants. An astonishing number for what they were expecting from my little hometown. There are still 7 days to go.
I get the kids situated so that I can open my box without error. There are fragile stickers covering every corner. 

Inside, is my cherry framed Galileo thermometer. It sets near the window, a beacon of hope. I feel eerily satisfied. It's taken me 20 years to understand what I've been measuring. 

I’m going to admire my own damn bubbles from now on.

Anger Management

This man looks how mothballs smell.

If you could see him, you’d understand.

They told me it would be “zen”. At best, the room reminds me of one big dusty book. It may hold treasure for someone. It’s just not me. Mr. Rowling was the embodiment of what I imagined an appropriate middle aged father was supposed to act like. Maybe I dodged a bullet there.

Mom never comes in.

If the floor is lava than the counselor's office is the volcano. It’d take a court summons to order her to talk to a shrink. She’s likely ventured off into one of the local shops. Pretending she leads a seemingly normal life I suppose. Maybe she’s making a hair appointment for the next time we’re obligated to be here. Or maybe she’s at the pub. I couldn’t blame her if she was enjoying an afternoon Budweiser.

Unfortunately, I’ll never know.

Perplexing as it is, neither of us can talk to the other one. Not even about how we spent our afternoon.

Shit.

Which brings me back to this bare bones chair bullshit. I’m to do 8 sessions with Mr. Rowling. 60 minutes each. “Anger management”, they call it. I’m 14 and I tend to think I’m fairly average. The puberty stricken boys I see putting dents in the school lockers are a far cry from my situation. Nonetheless, I am here. I am unable to tell you what it feels like to be "a little" mad. My emotions work as if controlled by a light switch. I'm either fine or I'm out of control. I once spilled a container of thumbtacks and got as angry at myself as I did when I blew the transmission on my first SUV. If I'm under the impression that there are Doritos in my cupboard, then realize that there in fact are none, there's a high probability I'll be as sad as I was at my cat's funeral.



In other words, my reactions aren't proportionate to the things I'm reacting to.

It's something I've been working on...



“It’s like hammering a square peg into a round hole every single day,” I say.

“I just want to know who I am.”



“No one knows who they are Samantha. Adults 5 times your age are still figuring out who they are. It's part of the process. Feeling enraged at the fact that you haven’t grown into your persona yet is unfair to those around you. And wrong to expect at a mere 14,” he scolds.

He doesn’t get it. The expensive paper hanging on the wall is supposed to be proof of his excellence in this field and show how qualified he is to handle little hiccups like me. And he literally doesn’t get it.

I can feel my cheeks going red.

The sheer frustration of knowing exactly what’s going on, while everyone else refuses to acknowledge you...

You’d get aggravated from time to time too.



Mom was late to pick me up. Against the protest of the lady at the desk, I swing the exit door and walk myself out. I don’t need to look back to see the expression on her face. I can feel her judgement. She’s wrong too.

Mom finds me a few doors down sitting on the large stone steps of the library. I secretly find myself hoping that the secretary is still watching; In awe of the fact that I wasn’t caught rolling joints or smoking crack. There’s no conversation on the ride home. I’ll run a mile, bike a mile and eat a bag of Banquet chicken tenders. I couldn’t even guess what the calorie count is on a bag of those suckers and truthfully I couldn't care less.



Fast forward a decade.

Work has brought me to Mr. Rowling’s doorstep. I recognize the name on the mailbox.

I want so badly for him to appear. For him to remember my face and my struggle that he could never solve.

I want to tell him that I’ve found all of the answers and that I was right all along. I need to tell him about the eyes I’ve looked into and the pieces of soul I’ve replaced. The places I’ve traveled and the love I have found. The searching I did for the answers I've sought. That he was ignorant in his old age and that my youthful self was justified in her quest....


I set down the large package and get on with my job.
Maybe he doesn’t deserve to know. For him, I was just a folder. This is my life.

Trying to make sense of other people's responses to us is a basic human activity. Accepting anyone's anger by concluding that it is justified, is a way of making sense of a difficult relationship.
But, this acceptance comes at a great cost.

I am Sam: Piece Four

           There were horse ranches of immense size all around us. I never would've guessed crop farming and animal husbandry would be such a big theme outside of upstate New York. Small side roads cut in between the agricultural masses. Curvy and cracked, we manuevered our way to the designated coordinates on the GPS. We affectionately call her "Karen". At times Karen tells us to, "....get out of your vehicle and finish walking to your destinaton". That's either a really good or really bad thing to hear. Dependent upon which kind of adventure we're having of course.
This morning isn't one of those adventures.
 I've got very little information to go on. An online website, two addresses and some input from Eric was about all I needed to deem it worthy of at least, an attempt.
   The last driveway at the top of the hill was where we needed to park. I am sweating bullets inside. No matter how skilled you are at small talk; convincing strangers ~that do not know you're arriving, to share personal information with you, is a bit intimidating.
 I will start with what I know best, "I am Sam." Eric convinces me that exactly that will be enough. We turn the jeep off and head for the door.
   At one time I think someone loved the property. There is evidence all around of gardening and typical miscellenous home projects left unfinished. Bird feeders hang sideways from willow trees.  All appear empty. A wood splitter hiding under blue tarps, ripped and frayed. Such a cute little home, drenched in abandon. After the initial walk up nerves, I finally settle into my skin after no-one answered the door. Eric, a bit more cautious, advices me to get out of the windows.
Still, he asks what I see inside. It looks as if someone had vacated the place back in 1980. There are shades of brown on everything. The floor, the couch, the wallpaper. It's all super retro. "This" would be the perfect house for a single cat lady.
Interestly enough though, that's the exact opposite of what I am looking for. I am seeking an aged man. Big stature and about 60 years of age. His parents were immigrants from Poland. I had found the records from Ellis Island. An attribute only rare names can offer.
I traveled a long ways to find an abondoned house with a "bird sanctuary" surronding it. Adjusting from the varying levels of anxiety and curiousties, we both plop a spot on the steps of the failed house. There's something okay about taking this break. Maybe while we sit someone will come along and claim the property. At this point I'd even take a tresspassing risk to get another lead. Stubbornly defeated, I rise to make my departure. I feel somewhat at a loss. Eric again- ever so clever, has a last ditch attempt to make sure someone knows we were here and what we are looking for. Even though we don't know who will find our note of desperation, I attach it to the squeeky front door. Head down, I take a big breath and clear my mind for the next address on my list.
         This time we are looking for a woman. I have no idea what she looks like, nor how old she should be. I have only a name...which indicates to me that she is married and a news article about events in the area that she lived in. The drive is not far. Maybe 20 minutes from our current location. We are coming down from horse land into what appears to be a more developed area. Churches stand ornate and strong, on many of the street corners. I wonder if this is how everyone feels when they're searching for something.
An unexpected sadness creeps in.
I do not know these places. I have never been to this state.
But, it feels as if I've missed them.
People would say that you can never miss that which you never knew. I disagree. With enough subconcoius proof now to back my beliefs up, I will find everything that's been buried here. In college once a professor told me that, "...a lie stuck to, is as good as any truth." Getting to this point has been like seperating salt from ocean water. I believe that as long as you're in control of the lies, you can shape them into whatver you like. But, it takes only one other person to unbind it all. Human error can be vile and atrocious. At the right time however, this will lead to something beautiful and tragic. This time the stories are me.

I Am Sam: Piece Two

I haven't seen my father in months. Seasons and holidays have come and gone. Strangers show up at the door more than my kin. The last day was a hot summer evening in August. Unannouced, but always welcome, he showed up while Eric's family was visiting and roasting marshmallows in the fire pit. The kids always enjoy the antics he encourages, but before he could leave one of the girls had snatched, and broken, a small piece off of his sunglasses. We searched and searched but, the tiny part was never found. He was awfully upset. Part of me felt guilt. It was like being five years old again, I might as well have done it myself for how bad I felt. He left without the piece. The girls didn't understand. I wasn't sure how to explain it.
My little sister is a lot like my dad. Even though she's on the other side of the country their traits they carry are eerily similar. Not that these were bad. I've had to learn and adjust over time to the fact that we're just different. They need their own space. They don't need people, and desire very minimal social interaction. The more commitments they feel pressure from, the more unhappy they are. It's funny. I don't think they see it from each other. Only from the outside looking in, could you tell how identically they choose to live. For years I have been the bridge between the two, passing bits of information here and there. Letting one know that the other is alive and well when I talk to them. At first I'd think it odd to not see a (living) father for more than half a year. Then I start to realize it's probably been 2 years or more since he's seen my sister. Her moving out of state even put me down to just a beach vacation with her once a year. I grew up with an immediate family that preferred to be the exact opposite. The less immediate we all were, the better everyone's lives seemed to be.


I had always felt like the sponge placed in between them all. I was the only one absorbing anything. And anything I retained, had no other place to go. I have years of useless information banked away. I am in the game, but I was never one of the main players. Something more like a silent referee. Watching everyone's choices and keeping a tallied score. I prefered it this way. I am not an active part in the story, I am simply the story teller. Out of all the traits my family members got that I did not, I was the only one given words.
Everyone else values the actions (or lack thereof). I value the story.
 It wasn't until my 23rd year that I realized I was more than an absorbant center piece between all of these people. I needed to learn their stories to learn my story. Without these big pieces and the reasons people did what they decided to do, the little pieces never would've made sense. Unlike many, I had to dig for the truth behind mine. A lie stuck to well, is no different than the truth. I had my work cut out for me.
If you could know the exact way you will die, would you want to know?
It's kind of like that.....
If you could know exactly who you are and how slim the likelyhood of your existence was, would you want to know?
For years I could not tell you much. I am Sam. I am here and I enjoy living. I am a teller of stories, and a seeker of truths. I fought harder for my truth than any one person should ever have to. My journey has given me a respect for all. The good, the bad and the ugly. It's all of value and it's all necessary. Life is similtanously more complex and more simple than you could ever imagine. Digging for skeletons that aren't your own may very well lead to your destructive ruin.
This didn't bother me anymore. Constantly turning a blind eye led to a rattling in my heart.
I needed to know who these people were. I needed to know what they've done.
It's on me to take over and carry the story. These will be my discoveries, cruel and beautiful. I can't look away. Like witnessing a fatal car crash, you know there's a good chance someone has died, but you can't bring yourself to turn away. You need to understand. You're personally invested in the disaster now. The outcome of everyone involved will have an effect on all of the bystanders.
Maybe you should go inside and close the drapes....

I wake Eric gently. We slept in the jeep again. It's never easy on the human back. Fairly normal when we are on a non traditional adventure though. He packed the survival snacks and hunting knives, I pack the data and information necessary for what we are trying to find. We drove all night through a mountainous region we could only imagine. The massiveness of it hid well in the darkness. We parked ourselves near some type of water. Only when the sun rose did we get to see the lake beside us. I was too anxious to sleep well. This time we needed to use a different skill set. We weren't hunting waterfalls. We were hunting people. People that could very well end up being ghosts. Armed with nothing more than a few papers and the names I had memorized we began my search. To find the stories I desired I needed to find elders. The closer somebody was to the truth in "real time", the more accurate the information would be. For the first time in years, I felt what it was to be truly nervous. I lacked my typical confidence. In exchange for the new information I was seeking, I had to leave my old perspectives on the waterbank. I had to let go of the rhyme so that I could find the reason.
The next 12 hours would change many peoples lives.
Regardless of anything cooked up, I had to stir the pot.

I am Sam : Piece One

      West Leyden is a small town. Only about 1,500 people are here living ordinary, small town lives. The school is not far from my house. We never do it often, but this evening must have been special. My parents have brought me down the street so that I could swing. I didn’t need anyone to push me. I’m not sure if I ever did. The sun is fading fast. It casts a golden hue over everything it’s touching for these last few minutes. My mom is abnormally happy. Dad’s got an arm around her waist, twirling her about. The oddity of it all makes me feel awkward. Displaced.

I kick my legs harder at the knee and imagine doing a full flip on the swing. How crazy that could be. My hair is as long as my legs. I bet it would get caught.

They’re walking together on the pavement, hand in hand. I’d hate to feel judged for my lack of sensitivity, but it’s the first time I remember seeing such gross displays of affection from them. A lot of the time that I’m not right here at this school is spent with my Aunt Joy or my grandparents. Mom works days. Dad works nights. In between they argue about who should or shouldn’t be out drinking with friends. 

 I have a half sister on my dad’s side. She is ten years older than me. Ecstatic to think I had a gender ally that could teach me all the things I needed to know as a girl, I was somewhat disappointed when it didn’t turn out that way. I’m pretty sure her childhood self, hated my existence as much as my mom disliked hers. Both sides arguing greedily…. Who needs the paychecks more? Who should get child support less? How can someone be so ungrateful?

I remember mom arguing with dad once that “we don’t even have money for Sam to get breakfast cereal, but Amanda got new basketball shoes!”

I didn’t want them to argue about me. Honestly, I can’t even stomach cereal. The milk turns my belly sick. I’m fairly petite for my age and I could go without needing breakfast. Amanda is older, and bigger. She probably needs more things. I don’t play basketball. I bet the shoes are cool though... 

I would never hear the story from my parents, and I still haven’t. But the story went that dad left Amanda’s mom for my mom, and to many in town, that wasn’t allowed in this aged out society. Either way, I was too young to ever be valued for my opinion. I never hated Amanda though. I never held bias towards her mom. I understood why people would hurt in different ways than others hurt. 

I believe my mom tried…. she just couldn’t let everything go. 

I believe dad tried…. he just wasn’t meant to operate that way under immense pressure.

You can’t change people. You’re far better off changing your expectations of them.

 I came to understand at about the age of six that Amanda wasn’t going to be my “super close, awesome, big sister”, instead she was just trying to survive her parental drama. I could respect that. There was a huge blow-out during a family camping trip. Mom and dad would argue in the tent over who he took preference to and defended more. I can’t recall all the details, but it would be 15 years before I ever saw Amanda again. Her high school prom picture would sit on the mantel forever. She wore a beautiful, floor length gown and had long dark hair. I imagined how things could’ve been if people weren’t so self-serving and if parents didn’t need to spill toxins into their child’s ears. It’s hard to understand why adults would set their children up with unnecessary dilemmas. We are much more resilient than any of them. We are also less spiteful and petty.

 In an alternate set-up Amanda and I could’ve been closer. I thought of her often, and always hoped that she wasn’t sad. I'd always felt like I ruined her expectation of how she pictured her life. For that I was sorry. 

A few months after that odd day at the park, my aunt is taking me to the hospital in the near-by city. Mom and dad were already there. Rushing through the parking lot my aunt tells me I have a baby brother. In utter shock at all of this news I try to hide my immense disappointment, but I start to cry my eyes out.

 In some sick turn of events this causes my aunt to laugh and tell me it was only a joke. I am indeed a big sister to a little sister. Pride swallows my whole heart. I don’t know if there was ever a greater feeling than this. I will finally get to be the sister I know I can be. Elizabeth is beautiful and healthy. She screams obnoxiously loud, but it’s okay. We’re both new to each other. We are learning. I don’t care where she came from. I smother her with promises. My instinct takes over almost immediately, no one is going to take this one away. 

The Permance of Purgatory: aka Teenage Pregnancy

 Alexis is ten years old now. Her face mirrors my own. She doesn't know the storms that surrounded her birth. How easily our entire lives could've changed. How hard doing what was right over doing what was easy was. I was a "teen mom".  It's no where's near as cool as the hit MTV reality show makes it sound. Not an ounce of glamour was involved.
   I was class president, student council vice president, soccer captain, accelerated softball catcher, Honor society member, Humane society volunteer, an active part of students against a vanishing environment, chorus, girls athletic association, I played clarinet and was nominated as our schools ambassador to the HOBY conference. I've always had a strong passion for learning and growing. Not because someone told me I had to....it's always how I've been. My support system was fairly weak on the home front and there was nobody mentoring me. My mistakes were my own and I had to take full accountability for them. Granted, there would be plenty more, but my pivotal shift from being a successful teenager turned into me being a failing adult in a matter of 9 months. 4 months if you count the fact that I didn't know I was pregnant with Lex until 24 weeks. Teenage stupidity.
      I was naive, uneducated in matters of the storks and made the giant mistake of sneaking out in my down time to go party away the stress that awaited me at home every day if came out of my room. Alcoholism and depression effects the entire family. Not just the person doing it. About a year prior to my pregnancy my maternal grandparents both died. A lot of focus in the house turned into the emptiness of what was gone, over what was still around. The guidance counselors never saw behind the smoke screen. Nobody could possibly understand unless their family has been through it too. It is the biggest knife in my back. I should be angry. I should be vengeful. But instead, we choose to protect those that are weak. I've never felt right about taking someone to slaughter that can't defend themselves. Maybe, it's a weakness of all sons and daughters. Maybe it's a weakness of those with empathy. But in short, I can't place my life mistakes on anyone else. I was all I had.
        I was escorted to a room in the high school office by one of my softball coaches. I managed to hold it together while I numbly made the walk to what felt like impending doom. A counselor was waiting for us inside. My mother had called and reported my newly discovered pregnancy to my coaches. I dropped a bit on my mile times but for the most part (aside from the constant vomiting each morning) you'd never know that I was 6 months pregnant. The doctors would later confess that my sports efforts were likely the reason why I was so physically able to handle labor without drugs or much effort. I sat in a pool of tears and embarrassment. The adults in the room seemed sad too. I begged to keep playing. Those were my girls, my team. I spent more time in the weight rooms and on the fields than I did at home. I was barred from athletics. Unless I wanted to be the designated " water-girl", which was an extremely generous gesture to keep me involved but I was already heart broken. It's like getting dumped and then having the guy say he wants your best friend. He'd still be there but then you'd have to lie witness to the pain day in and day out until you finally couldn't stand to see it anymore. "Thanks, but no thanks.", I want the girls to grow as a team, but I can't emotionally handle it while watching my belly grow on the bench.

         I lost everything I had built. Everything I loved. Alexis' father lost nothing. He'd never know what it was like to be pregnant and have to walk down a high school hallway. I lost my scholarships, I lost my sports teams. I lost my honors advanced regents degree. I had no time to volunteer or participate in my clubs. I lost many friends. Family tore me apart even more. I was put on a PINS program to prevent me from leaving the house I dreaded so much. PINS stands for "Person In Need of Supervision.", typically kids with drug charges in high school utilized the program over going to Juvie. I had to agree to it to avoid being placed with a foster family. I promise you I have never been a delinquent, nor is reckless one of the adjectives I would use to describe myself. People higher than myself, because of my age and inexperience, wrecked me in any way possible. There's something about people trying to destroy you that makes you want to empower others. Other teens, other moms, other kids of alcoholic families, other domestic abuse victims. We don't deserve to live with the consequences of other people's short comings. Family or not. I let the negatives go so that I could give myself the peace enough to make room to grow. Hate is too heavy to carry for long.
     I am strong because I've  been weak. I believe in everyone , regardless of their past, because I had no-one to believe in me. I believe the strongest of us are those who have been left for dead by everyone else. We then despair on our own until we choose to dig ourselves from the trenches or accept the life we've got in the dark abyss of sadness and solitude.
      I decided to be strong. So strong that no-one would ever dare tear me down again. I will have fire in my eyes when I face them all, never tears. I won't point fingers. I will stand and deal. I will face the world with my head held high and carry the universe in my heart. My mistakes are not grave. My life is not bad. My losses in hindsight, have been gains.
             Today starts my 2nd college semester. They don't know my past. I've got a clean educational slate. If all goes as planned and I keep myself organized I should have an honors degree with a major in Government next Spring. This morning, my four daughters shared in my anxiety and joy over another semester starting. Us all being in school creates a united front in all things homework and studying. They love going to the college. They are proud to wear their sweatshirts. They give us discounted movie tickets for our local theater and offer many family friendly events. I've been criticized for choosing to work and do college full time while I have 4 children. My daughters are not baggage, they are my drive. I could never put goals on my girls without being serious about achieving my own. I will pick them up when they are down. This is how the world will change, and it starts with what we do in our own households. We are not our parents and that's okay. I'm about to be a Sophomore again. And this time I will get it right.

Laying Love Down in the Driveway

"What weird people.", I said as I slammed on my brakes. This crazy old man and woman were veering in and out of their driveway on bicycles. I waited, somewhat annoyed, for them to complete the action and be roadside but no such luck. Even with the multiple chances I had given, they stayed glued to their paved driveway. I was about 5 miles from being done with my work day. I didn't have time for this nonsense.
 I was on my favorite mail route, about five years ago that I first met Mr. & Mrs. P. Before I came to know who they were they seemed awful strange from the outside, and trust me, I shouldn't even judge! My first run in with them was brash and quick. The second time I ended up there was for a bit longer....
   My old blue mail jeep strikes many peoples interest. With her steering wheel on the opposite side and odometer tipping 250,000 miles she's of novel curiosity. Mr. P caught me one day while stuffing bicycles are us magazines in his mailbox. I wasn't fast enough to get away without the introductory conversation that becomes necessary when a mail customer flags you down. It's never easy to be a speed demon, like headquarters desires and to be your neighborhood Mr. Rogers like your customers deserve. I accepted defeat and put on my best "I love new people" face. I could tell by the bicycle incident that this guy was going to be a weird one.
      Mr. P was in his 80's and nothing like the conclusions I had jumped to. He and Mrs. P moved here to be alone in their latter years. Which was going fairly well until I came along. For being in a town where there are more bovines than people they lived a fairly secretive lifestyle. Besides their daily bike charades!
 Mrs. P was his true love and that was about all I knew of her. He was a coastguard, a mathematician, a mad scientist and a mechanic. He talked of philosophical beliefs and scolded me on my cold views of humanity.
"There's good people and there's bad people Sam. Don't ever let the bad guys win.", he'd say.
Instead of using my lead foot, I began to slow down in hopes that Mr. P would be outside to entertain me with a new story of living and learning. My young brain enjoyed the tales of travels these two had made since the 1950's.
The only thing that became apparent...besides how wrong I was to judge this couple by first impression, was how much he loved Mrs. P. I had actually wondered if maybe he was in the beginning stages of dementia with all his repetitive elaboration on how wonderful his wife is. I swear her rosy cheeks were some form of permanent blushing caused by sharing a life with this man.
She was a woman of few words and many smiles. Mr. P would visit with me whenever I could make an appearance. Some days though they'd both kindly wave me by. If they were both on their bikes and riding in their weird ritualistic circle in the driveway they were not to be disturbed. Not that I ever understood this, I always respected it. I also began to pull a little farther away from their mailbox so not to scare Mrs. P into thinking I was about to put her under my jeep tire.
 A couple years had passed. Old Blue and I were still delivering together but this day was a bit different. I'd been overheating for about an hour now. I knew my time before complete disaster was limited but I was down to my last 5 miles! Sure enough my radiator blew it's top at Mr. P's. No one was riding bike in the driveway today, which seemed strange because it was beautiful out. To my relief Mr. P came out to their garage when I rang the door bell. I noticed his bike in the garage on the ground. Mrs. P's was hung up in the rafters. For safer keeping I imagined.
Sure enough I was right. Paul confirmed it. For the time being though, he said I could take whatever stopleak brand radiator crap he had along with however many gallons of water I could fit into the back of Old Blue. Everything combined should be enough to get me up and down my last hill and back to the post office. Success! That's all I could ask for. While we were filling jugs from the garden hose that's when he told me. Mrs. P had died. It was so unexpected that I managed to maintain my composure and focus on the tasks at hand while he told me what happened.
     I blanked out bits and pieces though....it was much easier on the heart to focus on the water jugs. She had gotten sick since my last visit and I hadn't been back to deliver mail there in so long that I never even knew. Immense guilt washed over me. Not that we bonded much, but I loved Shirley indirectly because of how much Paul loved Shirley. I needed a sidelining topic. This was a conflicting time for me...I told Paul of my beginning stages into the abyss that is divorce. I currently despised life and any type of "investment" into another human being. What a waste. I waited for his disapproval. Without a tear in his eye or a frog in his throat he said,
 "There is no divorce in love. There's not a thought or action towards it. You cannot come close to dissolving someone that is your entire existence. You don't know what I speak of Sam because you obviously didn't have it, but do what you need to do and get it done because that is not the kind of love you live your life for. No ma'am. It's unfortunate that you didn't know this sooner and that children have been brought into it but thank your stars for the chance to get it right because if you get it right you will find someone that would literally die for you if they had to. I always thought that I'd go before Shirley. I had everything set up for her so that even though she'd have to carry on without me she could do so without any worry about who was going to take care of her or that she wouldn't have the means to get by. I took care of EVERYTHING to make sure she would be okay when the last thing I'd ever want to do is leave her and now in some sick joke life has taken her from me.
Do you know why we rode the bicycles Sam?? We'd ride here in the driveway because our plan of traveling the country after my retirement was halted by the risks of Shirley's declining condition. She'd always say we could go but it was never worth her health. So instead of biking the big roads we circled the driveway. We may not have seen all the sights the world had to offer but just seeing Shirley's bike wheel right behind mine was enough for me. She was enough for me. The world can have all of it's glory. The best time of my life was the love we laid down in this driveway. I am not a simple man Sam, but I can tell you I have found beauty in the simplest of things. Do not have sympathy for me for I know what true love is. I will hope that it finds you someday. Only then will you understand what it is."


We put 5 gallons of water in the back of my jeep. The stopleak in the radiator seemed to be holding. I tried to pay Paul $20 for all of his help and supplies....he wouldn't take a penny. He shook my hand and told me it was a delight as always, even in the darkness of both our situations.

I cried softly the remainder of my mail route. I actually didn't even realize it until I saw the dampening dots on the front of the farm magazine I was holding. Oddly enough I didn't know if the tears were for me, Shirley, Paul or something completely unrelated. I just know the realness of what I just drove out of shook me. I would never see Mr. P again.


He died shortly after I saw him. It was November of 2014. He plugged the exhaust to his car and let it run inside the garage with all the doors closed. He was an intelligent man and I imagine he made it as painless as possible. He had hung his bicycle up with Shirley's.
People called it an "unexpected suicide".

There was a request for no donations, no service. No goodbyes. Paul didn't believe that he was going to a pearly gate to be united with his long lost love in heaven but a world without Shirley in it was not a world he wanted to live in. Although any chance at seeing her again, through any means possible was worth whatever sin was in his way. Death was not going to stop him from trying. There is no divorce in real love and there's no way to dissolve it. There was more love in that driveway than there had ever been in my heart in 23 years. I did not cry for Paul the way I did for Shirley. I'd been holding on to this story for a couple years now. Maybe it's taken me that long to actually appreciate the depths of it. But when I passed their driveway today on the mail route my heart "pinged" and I realized  how much their example meant to me and that just maybe you needed to hear it because it could mean something to you too. This really happened and the people are real. The love even more so...

Huntington's Disease: A Lesson in Love

        Awhile ago I shared with you my family's genetic vulnerability to Huntington's disease. If you missed it, Huntington's disease is an incurable, hereditary brain disorder. There is no (currently) 'effective' treatment or cure. Nerve cells become damaged, causing various parts of the brain to deteriorate. The disease affects movement, behavior and cognition - the affected individuals' abilities to walk, think, reason and talk are gradually eroded to such a point that they eventually become entirely reliant on other people for their care. Huntington's disease has a major emotional, mental, social and economic impact on the lives of patients, as well as their families. It is an atrocious sickness that no human being deserves. I want to share a positive story with you, but you should also see how powerful the disease is.  Below is another family's story to give you an idea. 

         

 Huntington's disease (known as HD to those familiar with it) affects both men and women equally and more commonly appears during middle-age. The Huntington's Society of America says 1 in every 10,000 Americans has the disease - that's 30,000 people nationwide. It is estimated that at least 150,000 other Americans have a 50% risk of developing HD, while thousands of their relatives carry a degree of risk too. The "at risk" category is where I fall. 

(Uncle Jimmy Center, surrounded by his siblings)

 This month my Uncle turned 55. He has HD. A celebration was planned by his sister just for him on his special day.  Family members from 4 generations attended. His aunts and uncles all the way down to his great nephew were in attendance. Everything was perfection, joint laughter filled the air. Cake was gulped down, balloons were everywhere. Smiles were contagious. 
     Silents thoughts stop me momentarily. I catch myself wondering if these memories will remain this way for years to come or if they will turn into painful reminders of what used to be. How we all used to be. But that's the kicker isn't it? Love is such a powerful thing. It brings with it happiness, security and peace. But, when the things we love are lost, we tend to feel the opposite. Pleasant memories become laden with jabs of pain. I realized then that maybe that's why love is ours to give. In a family where a disease can obtain more control than yourself, we learn to value the power over the things we could undoubtedly keep just for us. This is what makes our love strong. We can't take one family member's diagnosis and carry the burden for them. We can't stop the decline when it starts. We can't walk for them when they have lost the ability to. We can't force them to remember our name. The game changer is that we CAN love them. We can always love them.  It's a shoulder to lean on. It's days spent on a party that will only last hours. It's the perfect cozy sweater in the perfect wrapping paper. It's the homemade card covered in crayon. It's in an opened car door and a phone call to make sure you made it home. I didn't know all the people at the party but when I looked out all I could see was acts of love. I felt fuzzy and warm. I could tell Uncle Jimmy felt it too! This is huge. I wonder how we overlook these things every day.

(Uncle Jim & I)

               Maybe you can't always hear it but those cookies your grandma made you, the flat tire your dad changed, the impromptu visit from your sister, the rock your son just gave you......all very big acts of love. So even on the days when you feel like you have nothing to offer the world, always try to complete at least ONE selfless task a day. Don't wait for something negative to happen to realize you wish you could do more. Call your grandparents, hug your children twice - just because, hold that door for a stranger, let your sister borrow your car...or maybe even those jeans she really likes that you refuse to share. Bring your co-workers donuts on a rough day. Help the neighbor shovel snow off their steps. Smile at a stranger. 
      We can't control everything and we never will, but if we're here together anyways why not make it easier for each other when we get the chance. You'll never know how much it means to the person you do it for, or how greatly it will touch the people watching you. 

The Art of Divorce

               It was bright. The sun shot through the living room with urgency I couldn't ignore. Summer isn't one to wait, it's days are over before you're able to remember when they began. I loved these mornings.  With feet dragging but eyes shining, I got the four littles ready for the day. The previous night I spent hours with the stars, hoping they'd whisper some universal truth into my ears to help ease me through another week. Something wasn't right, I'd felt it deep into my bones for months now. The kids were enjoying breakfast while I hurried around the house with a bowl of cereal, packing the last few necessities to get out the door and go fishing. 
        Maybe it really was me or maybe it was him. Maybe it was the sun's fault for shining light into rooms, that for every night cradled only darkness. It happened. A sentence broke into a conversation and a conversation birthed into an argument. Tongues were razors and the room reeked of disgust. I really wanted to eat my whole grain cereal. I know how tired I'll be later on when the hustle doesn't slow and my mind is too overcome with the joys of the day to stop and waste time on making a sandwich.
                 A Corelle bowl was in the air, my precious plans inside. It shattered, into a million little shards. It shattered. He picked up a piece like an Olympian would a medal. He laughed, he had won. The mess was beautiful. Milk peppered with opaque chunks, circled by wheat flakes. The hardwood floor took the role as canvas and I was the creator. It was art and it spoke to me.  I was glued in thought....the first one being that I just lost my breakfast. The second thought was "Who in the hell makes this Corelle guarantee? It says right on the damn box that if one chips you get a replacement without question! If that's the case then how do I get a replacement for 850 chips in my bowl?!? -shit). Kids were still eating. Unaware of the life changing game that just took place in the living room. My faith in relationships and kitchenware had failed that morning. Pre-marriage Sam didn't know you would actually need to use your warranty on your expensive dishes. 
              If you're reading this and your searching for some understanding let me share with you what I learned. You're allowed to try and fail many times but when the chips turn into an all out shatter, let it shatter. Let it smash to the ground and explode where it lands. We won't always get the clean breaks we hope for, but if the torque and tension build into a force large enough you will be able to sweep the pieces into a dust pan and toss them away all at once. I don't think he knew it then but that minuscule bowl of cereal showed me more than 5 years of marriage could. After he left the room I cleaned up my mess with the summer sun witness through the windows. I heaved the grain sized pieces into the trash. I signed my divorce papers last month. This month I plan to get new dishes. I want to see a complete set shining in my cupboards again. 

My Name is Sam and I'm "At Risk"

        Let me start you with the basics. My name is Sam. I'm in my mid 20's. I originally started blogging 6 years ago during maternity leaves doing parenting reviews. My blogging interests have tweaked with the passing years. I am working on updates. I have four beautiful kids, all under the age of 10. I work for the USPS as a "mailman/lady". There's not a down moment in most of my days and I wouldn't change it for anything. 
     For ten years I've lived with the knowledge that there's a potential monster lurking in my body. I don't know when it would appear.... or if it's even there. At 14 I witnessed my grandmother's slow cancerous decline into her passing. At the time I believed it to be the cancer that took her away. I didn't know the deadlier culprit was already in her blood and that it had been coursing through her veins her entire life. The genetic testing revealed Huntington's Chorea. Other family members knew what it meant. I did not. There's a stigma attached to family secrets. They aren't suppose to be told. Why something medical fell into this category I never understood. Ironically the genetics that bond us all together are the same ones that could kill us. While overhearing conversations it was always referred to as "the family disease". We were all affected, whether we admitted it at the time or not. 

My Aunt who inspires me daily. She spends much of her free time with my Uncle.
He has confirmed HD 

            My grandparents had 5 children. (I inserted a diagram below to help show how the gene is passed over time). In the past decade one has been diagnosed and placed in nursing home care. He is one of the most beautiful people I know and with the care he receives he's improved greatly but his diagnosis will never change, there is no cure. He has no children so there's no-one else at risk. Two others went through the mentally grueling process of genetic testing and to the relief of many, both tested negative. This cleared not only them but a total of 6 kids (my first cousins) and 2 grandchildren. Two others have not been tested, this is a personal choice and what they are comfortable with. It is their right. Without the test results for those branches of family there are 3 kids at risk, counting myself. If the gene was passed to my parent I have a 50/50 chance of being positive as well. 
           In the beginning it was always taught to keep quiet. I believe there needs to be acceptance and admission. Shame has no place here. There is power in knowledge, power that can help wipe out the fear associated with all Huntington's Disease brings. If everyone hides away that which scares them so deeply, how will we ever find each other and get the help and treatment that's needed? I don't want answers in 20 years. It will be to late. I need them now. My family needed them generations ago. My name is Sam and I'm "at risk" for Huntington's Disease. Regardless of how my testing ends HD will always be a part of my life because it's a big part of my family's history.  

           Until further testing is done I try to live like I would if I'd received a positive result. That way there can be no regret. There is so much I have to do and so much left to feel. The lingering chance that I may not know who I am in 25 years drives me. Very few people knew the risk. I try to leave little bits of myself all over so that if I'm unable to, my children and grandchildren can find me. I leave my marks randomly on paper, in pictures, up mountains and down streams. In everyone I meet and everywhere I go it's my hope that I left something worthy of remembrance. I will share my story with you in the hopes that it can be shared with someone else in my situation. To make a difference in one person's life would be enough. There are days with moments of sheer silence, only open eyes. I need to take it all in. To watch my kids play, to hear their laughs and know someday those sounds could be taken. That silly song they sing constantly in the car, I won't even remember it. Being told I'm loved won't sound the same. Childhood memories will be just theirs to share. I won't be able to reminisce on how each story goes.
       How unfair it would be of me to keep the risks to myself and not share the negative possibilities with the ones that care about me.... I told him. He didn't run. Most days it isn't even a topic worth conversing. We have lots to do. We want to do those things together. He makes my heart race. It just works. While mid adventure I will often stop to look at the surroundings and the man in front of me. I love him immensely, I don't want to forget a thing. Nothing should be allowed to touch feelings placed safely in the heart. I know each soft spot on his hands. I won't let them go.  
              I'm a physical person with an athlete's mind. I love the challenges I can give my body to make it stronger. Nonetheless these muscles I work for now could be the same ones that run me into walls and drop me off staircases later. I talk......constantly. With HD it's possible to choke to death on saliva while conversing or eating.....daily. You spend your life building everything into the person you want to be. A rare terminal genetic disease could take all of mine away, I will build anyways. 
     I have included some facts on the disease and given you many facts about my own journey. If you're in my situation or you've been down this path I hope you reach out. I'm open to any contacts. It's my hope to continually share and update my journey with you. It's a process where I'm not even sure how it ends. People assume terminal illness has a specific look or that it could never be them. I'm only one living in the at risk category of thousands, but this is what it looks like. To me, this is normal. Living every day knowing something in my DNA could eventually appear and wreak havoc on everything I know. So when you catch up with me and you think I'm living to fast or pushing to hard try to remember where I'm coming from and then feel free to join me. 

Huntington's disease (HD) is a neurodegenerative genetic disorder that affects muscle coordination and leads to mental decline and behavioral symptoms. Symptoms of the disease can vary between individuals and affected members of the same family, but usually progress predictably. The earliest symptoms are often subtle problems with cognition. A general lack of coordination and an unsteady gait often follows. As the disease advances, uncoordinated, jerky body movements become more apparent, along with a decline in mental abilities and behavioral symptoms . After the onset of Huntington's disease, a person's functional abilities gradually worsen over time. The rate of disease progression and duration varies. The time from disease onset to death is often about 10 to 20 years.
The clinical depression associated with Huntington's disease may increase the risk of suicide. Some research suggests that the greater risk of suicide occurs before a diagnosis is made and in middle stages of the disease when a person has begun to lose independence.
Eventually, a person with Huntington's disease requires help with all activities of daily living and care. Late in the disease, he or she will likely be confined to a bed and unable to speak. However, he or she is generally able to understand language and has an awareness of family and friends.
Common causes of death include: Pneumonia or other infections, Injuries related to falls, Complications related to the inability to swallow. Physical abilities gradually worsen until coordinated movement becomes difficult. Mental abilities generally decline into dementia. Complications such as pneumonia, heart disease, and physical injury from falls reduce life expectancy to around twenty years from the point at which symptoms begin. Physical symptoms can begin at any age from infancy to old age, but usually begin between 35 and 44 years of age. The disease may develop earlier in life in each successive generation. 
HD is the most common genetic cause of abnormal involuntary writhing movements called chorea, which is why the disease used to be called Huntington's chorea. The disease is caused by an autosomal dominant mutation in either of an individual's two copies of a gene called Huntingtin. This means a child of an affected person typically has a 50% chance of inheriting the disease. The Huntingtin gene provides the genetic information for a protein that is also called "huntingtin". Expansion of a CAG (cytosine-adenine-guanine) triplet repeat stretch within the Huntingtin gene results in a different form of the protein, which gradually damages cells in the brain, through mechanisms that are not fully understood. 



There is no cure for HD, and full-time care is required in the later stages of the disease. 

     Existing pharmaceutical and non-drug treatments can relieve many of its symptoms.
The genetic basis of HD was discovered in 1993 by an international collaborative effort spearheaded by the Hereditary Disease Foundation. Research and support organizations, first founded in the 1960s and increasing in number, work to increase public awareness, to provide support for individuals and their families, and to promote and facilitate research. Current research directions include determining the exact mechanism of the disease, improving animal models to expedite research, clinical trials of pharmaceuticals to treat symptoms or slow the progression of the disease, and studying procedures such as stem cell therapy with the goal of repairing damage caused by the disease. (Excerpt From The HDSA) 

Minted.Com Holiday Cards!

 

Its that time of year again to whip out the camera and snap some awesome shots so you can create your own personalized holiday cards!!

Here's MY story: So I am the type of person that sends Christmas cards out every year no matter how busy I am, but in a rush I use to just pick up those packs of mixed cards you see in your local discount store and figured they'd do the trick. Thing is...they don't. As the holidays came and went I started noticing how awesome some of the cards were that people sent me and how boring mine were in comparison. Not Cool because I am not a boring person. I wanted nice writing and cool pictures and pretty envelopes!! I wanted people to get my card and say "Wow, this is neat!" and by them remembering my card they should also remember the message it came with! I know some of my friends do theirs at supercenters and they turn out okay too but I needed something simplier...I have 4 kids...theres no way I can make my Christmas cards and keep my sanity intact at a store. Then came Minted! I can now do everything I wanted to and more from my computer chair!  I can make cards with unique shaped edges, add my kids pictures to it or have no picture at all, pick out my font design and its size! I control the thickness of my paper and the color of my envelopes and can even make return labels to jazz my card up even more!! A professional will even check over your creation and fix or let you know of any problems and make you a proof to see!! The quality and designs are great, the customer service is excellent if you need any help and the price is right! So if your looking to wow your friends and family with a card this year and show them your not a "boring christmas card picker-outer" its time to start your holiday cards with Minted!!!

 

P.S. The style above is what I picked out! Its bright and beautiful and has plenty of places to add your own touch to it! I also decided to not have it like a traditional card but to have a family picture put right on the back (so its only front and back...no inside!) and I picked out silver envelopes instead of "boring" white and made some return labels to spice it up even more!! I hope you enjoy making your holiday cards as much as I did!! Remember to be creative...especially since you can be!! ;) 

 

 

 

About Minted:   At Minted, we love the idea that our products will find their way into your most personal celebrations, and we don't take that honor lightly. That's why we only use fine paper stock, rich inks, and crisp printing methods. A haven for paper lovers, we print our designs on a variety of thick, luxurious stocks. We guess you could say that quality is an obsession for us. We stand behind our products with a 100% satisfaction guarantee. We are proud to offer a stunning and exclusive assortment of holiday cards, Christmas cards, and wedding invitations sourced through our global community of indie designers. Whether you're looking for non-photo or photo cards, modern or vintage designs, Minted allows you to customize a design to be uniquely yours.

We believe that great design lives and thrives in the hands of indie designers that people may not have access to through traditional retailers. Our goal is to use technology to allow our community to discover the work of great designers from all over the world. And at the same time, create a place where designers can get exposure and build their careers.

Minted holds monthly design challenges for stationery, invitations, calendars, and other categories and all graphic designers are invited to enter. The Minted community selects the best designs in a highly competitive process, which gives us a top selection of the freshest, finest cards in the world. Winning designers earn cash prizes, a place in the Minted collection, and commissions on all sales of their designs

 If your as interested and new to this company as I was please read on to learn more about Minted, I really like so much of what they do, how they do it and what they accomplish with each and everyone of our orders!

 

DISCLAIMER: this post was sponsored by the above company in exchanged for my honest opinions!



Our Trip

Our trip to Old McDonald's Farm