Merry Christmas Blah, Blah, Blah

Dear Readers,

Here we are again, the shadow of Christmas looming over us like a big tacky giant, wanting to be friendly but accidentally squashing us in the process.  That's not to say, "Bah hum bug."  I'm not that much of a downer.  I am enough of a downer to wish Christmas a speedy hello and goodbye, and get back to life as normal though.

I wasn't always like this, you know.  My disdain for the season is a result of many years working behind retail or coffee counters, assisting frantic and grouchy customers as they spent their hard earned dollars on undeserving family and friends.  A few years working for the airlines and being yelled at by stressed passengers didn't help either.  Culminate that with the loss of significant loved ones, and you've got the perfect recipe for a spoiled holiday season.  I am remiss though, if I don't talk about the time in my life when it was a joy and delight, heart warming and much craved.

As a child growing up in Rupert, I was fortunate to live near both sets of my grandparents.  Grandpa Jack and Grandma Donna (the Badgers) lived about a mile from us down H Street.  Grandpa Cal and Grandma Hazel (the Braeggers) were just a hop skip and a jump past the sugar beet factory in a tiny town called Paul.  Our family had a very strict Christmas schedule: Christmas Eve in Paul with the Braegger clan, Christmas morning (directly after opening Santa's gifts) was spent at my Aunt Nan's house for brunch, and then over to Grandma and Grandpa Badger's for Christmas dinner.  Every turn was filled with food and family, so much love and joy (not to mention a good dose of fighting with my sisters).

Not to downplay the events of Christmas day, as they hold a very dear and special place in my memory, but my Christmas Eve's spent in Paul were by far my favorite.  You've read posts about the Braegger's before; I've written about our reunions at Banbury Hot Springs a few times before.  My mom is the baby sister of 5 kids: Jed, Nan, Ruth, Wally, and Kristie.  I am 2nd from the bottom in a pile of grandkids (not counting the great-grandkids, that is).  On Christmas Eve, we'd come from near and far to Grandpa's cinder block house, located right on the highway, the giant willow trees in front waving their welcome.  Through the office door and out of the cold, when you'd open the door into the house you'd be greeted by a wall of inviting heat, my grandpa insisting on keeping his coal fireplace at full roar so the little ones wouldn't get cold.  On the yellow kitchen table (which now resides at my mom and dad's house), food would be piled, my aunts and grandma laughing in the kitchen as they prepared the grandest of meals.  The men in the living room, with football or whatever on the television (was anyone even watching?), taking turns chatting and napping.  And the grandkids, running circles around the house, or doing cartwheels into the Christmas tree, or trying on our mom's old prom dresses and high heels, trying to see through the broken lenses of the discarded cat eye glasses.  Most likely you would find us by the old hi-fi, listening to the Chipmunks Christmas Album, singing at the top of our lungs.  When dinner was served, the young ones would shove their faces as quickly as possible (why didn't I savor those meals more?), anticipating the gift opening that would take place directly after pie was served.  Then my sweet grandpa, would start with the youngest grandchild and one by one we would open our gifts.  We never wanted to leave, even with the suspense of Santa coming. Those times were the best times, and even as small children we recognized it.

Look at me, wax nostalgic.  Once I get started it's hard to stop, so please forgive me.  Last year my parents started a new tradition where my sister's and I pack up our families and we drive to Tamarack to spend the weekend together in a beautiful cabin.  We just celebrated our Badger family Christmas last weekend, and it renews some of that same spirit I had as a child.  Warm and comfortable, with piles of food and a lot of laughter, it reminds me of what Christmas should be.  I'm stoked to share this time with Lucas and Shay, to give them a taste of what was and is so important to me.

Putting aside my disdain, I would like to wish you all the happiest of holidays.  I hope they are spent in the company of those you love, be it family or friends, and are full of food and laughter and whatever you need to get through the day. 

Sincerely,
h.

To My Tribe: A Belated Thank You

Dear Readers,

The term "Urban Tribe" was introduced to me by a friend at a baby shower we were having for our dear friend Caitlyn the other day.  We were discussing how we would all be battling for time with Caitlyn and her baby girl, already dreaming up schedules to be on-call for them.  I mentioned how lucky I am to be part of a group of friends and community that supports each other so much; that I rely heavily on for help with raising Lucas, as well as support for myself and Shay.  That's when Jen introduced the term to me, saying that people of our generation (although normally close and in good relations with their blood family) have learned to create and depend on bonds with their friends that have in the past been reserved for family.  How true that is.  I've said it before, and I'll say it many times again: my closest friends are family to me.  Good news, bad news, or any news at all, they are the first on my call list.

As we inch nearer to Thanksgiving, and we take time to reflect on what we are grateful for, my heart swells and overflows with affection for my tribe.  With that in mind, I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you for the support and love you offered with open arms and hearts during the worst of times.  It's taken me a long time to be able to issue this thanks with any sort of tangibility, but I'm happy to now be in a spot where it's both possible and necessary.  You see, when Loren was first sick, I reached out for your help, and you responded greatly.  My vision was to give Lojo a little inkling of the support and love that was behind him, and I was able to create a book for him that with each page reminded him that he was loved.  I was nervous when I gave him the book, not sure if it was the right thing to do after all.  He looked through it once.  And then again.  Then one more time.  He didn't say anything, just sat shaking his head in a yes fashion looking one page at a time.  This is what he saw:

Aaron

Jesse

Jason

Lucas

PL

Greg R.

Heidi

Matt

Chris

Courtney

Jennifer

Jenny

Michelle

Sarah

Addison

Alex

Beth

Mike

Becky and Catie

Rachel

Shay

Chris (again)

Drew, Lacey, Trace, Rhys

Heidi and Bubba

Sam

These two weirdos.

Erynn

Saratops

Marie

Arran

This Cat

Greg G.

Hott Scott

Davey

Brittany

All of Boise

As you can see, this is a pretty big tribe.  You might be surprised to learn that this doesn't even scratch the surface (I'm missing some of the pictures; I'm sorry if I missed anyone who contributed).  If I had a picture of everyone that offered their love and support, this blog would break records for it's length.  Loren was grateful for and touched by your expressions of love.  So was/am I.

Look around you, look at those who are close to you, family or not.  Identify the bonds that are the strongest.  When you think of strength, who's the first that comes to mind?  When you yearn for company, who do you wish it was with?  Find your tribe.  Add them to your grateful list.  Then call them, text them, whatever way you prefer to reach out, just do it.  Let them know how you feel.  It is so important.  It's so easy.

Hey, you!  Yeah you!  You know who you are, my nearest and dearest.  I love you!  SO MUCH.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, for the rest of my life thank you.  You have made all the difference.

Sincerely,
h.

My Kid

Dear Readers,

I don't do this often.  Brag in excess about my kid, that is.  Don't get me wrong, Lucas is without a doubt one of the finest humans beings to grace this planet.  I know that, his dad knows that, and most people that know him probably know that.  However, I also realize that every parent feels the same way, so the "my kid's the greatest" spiel is worn and redundant and not my sort of thing.

Except for today.  I happen to have gained tangible proof that my kid is indeed, the greatest.

Not even an hour ago I was sitting across the table from Mr. Steidel, Lucas' third grade teacher.  We went through the regular statistics, writing samples, etc.  He expressed enthusiasm for Lucas' drawing abilities, spoke about his better than average reading skills, and spoke to the slight frustration of trying to get Lucas to complete a task in a timely manner (I have dubbed him the captain of Team Molasses, so this complaint is a familiar one to me).  After all the official stuff was out of the way, Mr. Steidel told me about a couple things he noticed that he wanted me to share with me.

The first incident happened just yesterday, at their Halloween party.  The kids had made BINGO sheets earlier in the day, and when their party started and they were preparing to play, one of the girls realized that she had lost her sheet.  Lucas, worried that this girl would not be able to participate, without any sort of prompting, invited her to share his sheet even though it meant he would only get to play every other round.  Mr. Steidel said that the most impressing thing about it was that not only was he willing to sacrifice the chance to win the highly sought after prizes, but he went out of his way to make Anna Belle feel better.

The second apparently happens on a regular basis, this time involving a boy named Andrew.  I've heard of Andrew before; apparently he's pretty hyper and annoys the other kids.  Lucas himself has complained about the young lad, not sure how to handle him. I have some first hand experience with being picked on and made fun of by other kids, and am a bit sensitive to the issue. My advice to Lucas was to be patient with him, and to never-ever be mean or cruel to him.  I explained that there will be annoying people around for the rest of his life, so learning how to be okay with them is an important skill; that tolerance is a virtue.  I don't recall Lucas bringing Andrew up since my big ol' lecture, and had forgotten about it.  Mr. Steidel reminded me of him today though, when he mentioned him as a student that struggles greatly both socially and academically.  According to Mr. Steidel, Lucas (again, unsolicited) will quietly get up when they are working on their assignments and go over to Andrew to see if he needs help, and will then patiently go through whatever problem Andrew is having and will help him work through it.

"You have an exceptional young man for a son," said Mr. Steidel.

I've heard stories from Lucas' previous teachers similar to these.  After each one, I wonder if I could ever be more proud of him.  I learn over and over again that I can.  I am gushing with affection, appreciation, and admiration for the compassion that Lucas exemplifies.  I am proud of his grades, his progress, and his academic prowess.  His golden heart though, that's what makes me weep with gratitude and genuine joy.

I'm the luckiest mom in the world.

Sincerely,
h.

A Baker's Manifesto

Dear Readers,

Earlier today, I was sitting in a sunny spot at the Flying M Coffeehouse with my dear friends Caitlyn and Sarah.  I was describing to them my failed attempt at making pumpkin cinnamon rolls, and after getting frustrated at the thought of this miserable waste of ingredients I ended my rant with, "...but the maple cream cheese frosting was pretty great." To which they both groaned in that it-sounds-so-good sort of way.  "If you get tired of me talking about my baking, please feel free to tell me to shut up at any time," I said.  Caitlyn replied, "If there's one thing I can listen to all day, it's you describing your baking."  My heart swelled with appreciation, because it's one thing I can't seem to shut up about.  So let me tell you a little more about it.

I was 13 or 14 years old when I made my first batch of cookies by myself.  I was doing them for extra credit in my history class (Mr. Hale was unabashed about giving extra points for sucking up).  My mom, an excellent cook and baker in her own right, was never patient with other's in her kitchen (a trait I've inherited), so it was a big deal that I was allowed to tread on such hollowed ground.  I refused help of any sort, insisting that I do every step myself.  I'd watched my mom do it a million times, I was sure that it would be easy to do.  After following the recipe step by step, I pulled a beautiful batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven.  Actually, they were more than beautiful, they looked amazing.  I eagerly took a bite of one, and was mortified to find that this golden, soft, perfect cookie tasted like a hot mess of chocolate and salt.  I put the next batch in the oven, thinking that it was a fluke that they tasted so bad.  The second batch came out just as lovely as the first, but that horrid taste of death was still found in each bite.  My mom went through the recipe step by step with me to see where I messed up, and to my horror and her delight we found where I went wrong: instead of a 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda, I used a half cup.  I was crestfallen, and earned no extra credit.

It was several years before I took a stab at baking again.  I made the occasional batch of cookies or a birthday cake, using mostly boxed mixes.  Like most domestic things, I shirked my cooking duties for other more important things, like staying out all night, spending my money on concert tickets instead of food, and considering a box of Rice-A-Roni eaten straight from the pan a satisfying and well-rounded meal.  But lurking in the shadows of my subconscience  was an apron clad version of myself, standing along side my mom, aunts, and grandma in one of their yellow kitchens watching pie crusts get rolled out, filled with fruit or custard and a healthy dose of love, and baked to perfection.  I was born into a fine line of bakers, and my genes anxiously awaited me to put my intuitive skills to use.  Thanks to my cousin Tori's sugar cookie recipe, I found my calling.  All it took was a batch of Halloween themed sugar cookies that I took to work with me one day on a whim, and ended up with orders to fill for some regular customers of mine at Starbucks.

That was several years ago now, and since there hasn't been a week that's gone by that I haven't made one sweet treat or another.  A few years ago, while living in the Idaho Building in downtown Boise, I decided to make brunch for a couple of our friends.  After a few mimosas and realizing that I had overestimated the amount of food to make (still a problem of mine), those couple of friends started yelling at other friends who were loitering on 8th Street, and before we knew it our apartment was filled with people.  All of them were kind, gracious, and extremely complimentary of my food.  So to help keep my self esteem high, I started having brunches on a regular basis.  The regular attendees have become accustomed to the Braegger-baker way of things, meaning that I am the only one allowed to cook in my kitchen (I don't mind visitors and conversation, but stay the hell away from my stove), and I will cook and bake and serve until my guests are nearing food comas, and then I'll sit down and partake.  Guests are encouraged to bring bacon (we typically go through 5-6 lbs a brunch) and/or beverages, and for the first time this year I allowed one guest in particular bring his extraordinary macaroni and cheese, the first dish served at a brunch I hosted that I didn't make.  Brunch days are by far my happiest days, when my house is filled with my closest friends and I get to feed and nourish and lavish them with attention.  Oh man, those days are the days I crave.

I have been fortunate enough to turn my passion into a micro-business, taking orders from friends and strangers alike.  I've sent cookies all over the country, I've been honored to make wedding cakes, and treats for everything from baby showers to corporate gifts.  It's funny how it works, because my life doesn't always lend itself to having the time or energy to take orders.  During those times, I won't receive any calls.  The moment that I think I'm ready to start up again, without solicitation, my phone will start ringing and the orders roll in.  I'm always so humbled that people want to pay me to do something that I love so much.  Even more fulfilling than taking orders is to surprise my loved ones with treats.  I have this terrible habit of showing up on doorsteps or in workplaces with a little packages filled with treats and love.  They always think I'm doing something nice for them, but the whole truth is that it's doing something for myself.  The days I struggle the most, those are the days I plan my surprise deliveries; I can't explain how or why, but knowing that I'm going to create something for someone I care about to enjoy, well that can get me through just about anything.

I am so grateful to the ladies in my life that have inspired and instructed me to find such joy in my kitchen.  I am so grateful for those who find pleasure in my talent, and hire me to bake on their behalf.  More than anything, I am grateful for my friends and family who are so patient with me while I shove confection after confection down their throats and never complaining about it.  What would I do without your ever expanding stomachs?  Rest assured that each calorie is matched with heartfelt love and affection.  It may not stop diabetes or heart failure, but it's nourishing none-the-less, I promise.

Sincerely,
h.

Thoughts From 15,000 Feet

Dear Readers,

I returned to Boise late last night after spending a week in New York and New Jersey.  I enjoyed a lot of great experiences, and even more important, a lot of great people.  I have a bag full of stories and memories to share, but that will have to wait for another day.  For now, here is a snapshot from my travels last night that I wrote on the plane ride from Minneapolis to Boise.

As I was getting off of the plane in Cincinnati, I watched as an older black woman climbed into an airport courtesy wheelchair.

"How are you, Mrs. White?" Asked the girl who would be helping her.

"Blessed."  Answered Mrs. White.

So certain in her conviction, so quick to answer.  It wasn't religious, pretentious, or annoying.  Rather, it may have been the closest thing to a wholly honest answer to that often inane question that I've ever heard.

It is possible that I took this entire trip to hear that one, valiant word: blessed.

Sincerely,
h.

A Hot, Glittery Mess

Dear Readers,

Not long after I wrote my last post, where I made a commitment to not be depressed and self-deprecating, and to be kind and offer pie to everyone,  life threw me a curve ball and challenged that commitment.  A dear friend of mine, Deana, decided it was her time to leave this party we call life and let us continue on the dancing in her absence.  And I, once again, found myself in a place of contemplation spurred by the sting of heartache and the longing for an answer to that great question: why?

Deana and I worked at Anthropologie together, along with a gaggle of fantastic girls.  Working with all ladies has it's ups and downs, but I made and strengthened some great relationships there. Deana was one of those, and we always had a great time together.  We laughed, all of the time.  She's one of the few and the proud that could match me in my crassness, and my wit would cower in the shadow of hers.  Loren went into the hospital on my last of work at Anthropologie, and knowing that I was greatly distressed, Deana organized a gathering of the great Antho ladies and took me out for a night on the town to help me take my mind off it; funny how it's a night I'll never forget.  We weren't best friends, the ladies in her life that she was closest to are a phenomenal bunch that never cease to impress me.  However, she was a great friend to me, and I think I was to her.  Either way, I'm glad I had her in my life, I'm glad we had a few occasions to dance all night, I'm glad we made dirty jokes, and I'm certainly glad some of her glitter spark rubbed off on me.  As we learned from Robert Frost (or Pony Boy in "The Outsiders"), "Nothing gold can stay."  But it's impossible to get rid of glitter.

So, let me tell you about that week that Deana died.  I had a birthday, a funeral, a wedding, and a tattoo appointment, one right after the other.  Highest of highs and lowest of lows.  My closest of friends, that joyous group of people that are so essential to my heart that it would stop were they to leave, showered me with love and joy and gifts that I didn't deserve on my birthday.  The next day I picked up my sweet kindred spirit Stephanie, and we spent the morning reflecting and laughing and crying, and then joined some of the other beautiful loves of Deana's life for a memorial that was fitting and tragic. Later we sat in the backyard of Deana's house and mingled in that sort of dazed way you do after a tumultuous afternoon, smeared red lipstick on one another and left red kisses for our departed friend.  On Saturday I was overjoyed to be with my family, that amazing Braegger clan that is full of laughter and chatter and gossip and pie.  My cousin Taylor's wedding was beautiful, it was so fun to be a part of it.  Shay and I were charged with playing the music; it was great to have a reason to dance and celebrate.  Finally, Sunday came and after a year of waiting I went to see the amazing Darcy Nutt, who tortured me for several hours, but the end result is a beautiful and perfect scar.

From this week, I learned (again) that tragedy and joy are the most unlikely companions, but hand in hand they walk together.  I guess it makes sense, as their existence is dependent on the other's success.  Thank you, my friends, my family, for sharing in both with me.  If my life has any purpose at all, it has everything to do with you.  Thank you, Deana, for helping me remember all of this.  I hope you've found yourself in disco heaven, and that you'll save a dance for me.

Sincerely,
h.

Love by the Slice

Dear Readers,

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to my Uncle Wally near the fire pit at the hollowed grounds of Banbury Hot Springs. We were discussing my blog, the very one you're currently visiting, and I mentioned that I was working on not being so depressing. In response, he told me what my Grandma Hazel used to say to him when he was depressed: "Usually people are depressed because they're spending too much time thinking about themselves."

This conversation has echoed through my mind several times. My Grandma was and continues to be a very important person to my life and development. She died when I was Lucas's age, a very young 8 years old. Even then I put her on a pedestal, and when I think of her I picture someone filled with nothing but warmth, light, and love. I would love to grow up to be just like her. I suppose that it goes without saying when I hear words of advice that she's given, I listen to them reverently and closely and lock them away safely in my heart. What Wally shared with me has held an extra sort of gravity, and I think it's because it was a message that I particularly needed at this time in my life.

I, just like everybody else, have a lot of reasons to feel sorry for myself. My life has had more than it's share of grief, pain, illness, and misery. I have struggled with clinical depression for the entirety of my adult life, sprinkled with post-partum depression as well as anxiety issues. I have an auto-immune disease that reminds me daily that it's alive and well and doing it's best to make things difficult. Funny, I'm getting upset with myself for listing my complaints like this. I don't wear self-loathing well. For that reason, it was and is hard for me to recognize that I am being selfish when I allow one or the other of the items on my list of despair to bring me down. Once again, I can look to my Grandma Hazel's example for guidance; she spent a great deal of her life battling diabetes. I'm sure her list of struggles in life far exceed my own. However, I don't remember ever hearing her complain. I don't recall a time that she had negative words to say about anybody else. But I do have vivid memories of her patience, her kindness, and her pie, which she shared with whomever walked through her door.

This next week I will have my 33rd birthday. As a gift to myself, I am releasing myself from self-pity, and will replace it with the freedom to perform good works for others. I will allow my mind to rest from it's thoughts of self-doubt and critisism, to leave the job of deprication to others, to find and recognize my strengths and beauty. I will think kind thoughts, say kind words, and practice kind deeds. After all, I am doing no one else (let alone myself) a service of wallowing in guilt, grief, and depression. There's already plenty of that in the world without me adding to it. Most importantly, I will make more pie, and everyone that walks through my door will be offered a piece. I'm not sure that there's a better way to serve love and happiness than by the slice, after all.

Sincerely,
h.

A Window to my Soul

Dear Readers,

This is something I don't normally do, but I wanted to share an entry from my journal with you. I wrote this yesterday after hiking into a beautiful canyon right outside of Bryce Canyon National Park. Please note, there is nothing I could write to express the beauty and majesty of this place I was so fortunate to visit. So here you go, a little window into my soul:

I met God today. As a skeptic and non-believer, it's odd for me to say that. But I know no other name for the beauty I experienced today. Neither man or woman, rather a genderless wall of red cliffs and a rushing stream of cold water, with majestic piness growing in places you wouldn't think fit for a tree.

Memories of building scenery in a mason jar with different colors of sand (that smelled both sweet and putrid at the same time) filled my mind. Remember shaking the jar, erasing the lines and colors and turning the so carefully layered landscaped into a mess of brown nothing?

The wind whispered sweet nothings in my ear of past loves and of future possibilities.

No promises made but one: what was there before my birth will stay around long after my death.

I met God today in nature's cathedral. I said no amens, and it gave me no blessings; but we shared an experience that is now recorded in the stones of the rushing creek and the canals of my memory.

Sincerely,
h.

My Mom: a Mother's Day Tribute

Dear Readers,

Growing up, on more than one occasion I heard the story about my mom being mad at my Grandma Hazel. I can't remember what the argument was about, but my mother's way of showing her frustration at the situation was to go into her bedroom and throw her hairbrush on the bed, and that was the end of it. My sister's and I used to really get a kick out of this story, mainly because when we were upset with our parents or each other we were loud enough that the entire neighborhood knew. Andrea and Kate had their own ways of showing frustration; mine was to play "Waltz in A Minor" by Franz Schubert on the piano as loud and as passionately as I could. I have that song memorized. I'm sure my parents know it note for note as well.

My mom never had to learn such an angry song on the piano because I don't believe she has an angry bone in her body. Patient, kind, loving, pious, she is these things. But never angry, never mean. Her name is Kristie (please refrain from spelling it wrong), and it's with great pleasure that I introduce her to you. Mom is the youngest of the five Braegger children: Jed, Nan, Ruth, and Wally. Besides my dad and sisters and I, there was never a question who the most important people in her life are. I spent countless hours with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins growing up, and still look forward to and relish the time that I get to spend with them. A big reason for this is the example my mother set for me on the importance of family; she is at her happiest when she is surrounded by hers. When someone in the family is struggling, you struggle along side them (and feed them pie). When someone in the family is celebrating, you celebrate along side them. You call them when they are sick, call them when they are well, and of course, you always feed them pie.

As of late, I have struggled with understanding my need to nurture. Ask my friends, I'm obnoxious about needing to take care of them. I have this built in urge to make sure that everyone is okay, that they are fed and their well-being is nothing but tip-top. I called my mom not long ago and asked her if she remembered just when, exactly, I started showing this behavior. As she was silent and thinking for answer, I had visions of my mom, my aunts, and my grandma at family dinners and holidays, busily preparing meals, serving them, and just as the rest of the family was finishing they were just sitting down to quickly eat and then were up again to clear the table and serve dessert. "Oh," I said to my mom, "Wait. This isn't just my instinct. I got it from you, from grandma. All the women in our family are like this!" to which she replied, "It's our culture. It's part of who we are." After that conversation, I've realized that my nurturing instincts are a gift, not a burden. As long as a Braegger lady is around, if there is someone to take care of, by george they will be taken care of! Again, my mom set this example for me. 

I was convinced as a teenager and young adult that I had nothing in common with my mom. That she didn't understand me. However, the moment I had Lucas, I saw my mom in a completely different light. It's true, on the surface, we don't have a lot in common. She listens to Carly Simon, Neil Diamond, and the dreaded Michael Bolton, while I prefer loud classic rock, Radiohead, and sad ambient songs. She has faith without question, a devotion to church that is admirable, and lives her life with quiet and untarnished dignity and integrity; I am a skeptic, have loud opinions, and although I have integrity there is nothing quiet about it. Like I said, once I had Lucas I was able to see a different side of my mom. I'm having a hard time coming up with a good way to explain it, but I understand now why she is overprotective of my (as she coined it) tender heart. I understand why there are times that it's more important to be a parent than a friend to your children. I understand that there is validity to taking a hot bath when you have a problem, that more often than not if you go to the bathroom it will take care of your tummy ache, and if you just go to sleep when you wake up things won't seem so bad.

My mom has been by my side through thirteen surgeries. After my last, about two years ago, as I laid in my hospital bed recovering from my appendectomy, I would come in and out of my morphine stupor and my mom was just sitting in the dark and quiet room by my side. I told her she could turn on the tv, that she didn't just have to sit there. She said to me, "One day, if Lucas is ever sick, you won't need to do anything but just sit by his side and make sure he's okay." Although I haven't had this experience with Lucas, I remembered those words last Mother's Day as I held Loren's hand and watched him sleep. As usual, she was right.

There aren't words good or kind enough in the english vocabulary to describe my sweet mother. She is, without question, one of the best people I know. I am proud of any and every trait she passed down to me. My dad, my sisters and I are some of the luckiest people on the planet to have such a gracious and caring individual in our lives. So it is with great sentiment, awe, and love that I wish my mom, Kristie Badger, the happiest of mother's days.

I love you Mom, and am grateful and humbled to be your daughter.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S. It was me that destroyed your Michael Bolton "Time, Love, and Tenderness" cassette tape. But I'm not apologizing, because it was awful. I will, however, replace it. xoxo

What's This Call, This Sperit?

Dear Readers,

For those of you who have been devoted readers from the beginning, you may recall me speaking of John Steinbeck a time or two. If you haven't guessed, his books are held very near and dear to my heart. I cling to his stories the way most do to scripture. I am his disciple. Last night I embarked on my annual reading and review of his Pulitzer Prize (as well as the catalyst for his Nobel Prize) winning classic, "The Grapes of Wrath". Although I would have to say that "East of Eden" is my favorite, most prized piece of literature in my vast collection, "The Grapes of Wrath" is in my top five. Written by a very driven 37 year old Steinbeck, he started and finished this very important transcript of American history and welfare in 4 short months. As a result, laws were made and lives were saved. Not many authors have such bragging rights.

Not to completely change subjects, but I had an experience today that shook me up a bit. One of my officemates is a lovely women named Bonnie. She's been an educator her entire life, and is passionate about teaching. After teaching elementary school for years, she retired only to be snatched up by Northwest Lineman College to teach our Training Specialists the art of instruction. We haven't worked in the same space for long, none-the-less she is a warm and loving person and someone I'm proud to call a friend. It was shocking and awful today as another coworker and friend of mine, Jennifer, and I witnessed Bonnie answer the phone to receive the tragic news that her husband had a heart attack, and was in a coma as a result. Bonnie was frantic (naturally), and Jennifer and I scurried to her aid, helped her gather her things and came up with a quick plan to get her to the hospital. Soon we found ourselves in the waiting room of the ICU, wanting to make sure that Bonnie was okay and to offer any support we could. The room was filled with coworkers and friends of her husband, and soon their grown children came as well, and we made our exit.

Last year at this time, you would find me loitering in waiting rooms on the 5th floor at St. Al's hospital, usually accomponied by one or the other of Loren's parents. A lot of reading, writing, and conversation transpired in those waiting rooms. What an apt name, because wait we did. Wait till Loren wakes. Wait till Loren goes home. Wait till the sun is shining and the grass is green and the flowers are blooming. Eventually there was nothing left to wait for. Today, sitting in a different hospital, on a different floor, in a different waiting room, the old anxiety surfaced, and my heart broke for Bonnie, knowing all the waiting she has in front of her. Regardless of the outcome, that inbetween time when you flounder in the abyss of ignorance, it's just so helpless and awful. It's times like that I miss faith. Or maybe crave it. I'm not sure, all I know is that I don't have it. I see things in such a black and white nature, I can't imagine holding an unknown force responsible for the well-being of myself or those that live in my heart. I envy those who can.

It is with that big faithless void that resides in me that I bring this conversation back around to John Steinbeck and "The Grapes of Wrath". Last night, I read some of my favorite paragraphs ever written. Tom Joad comes upon an ex-preacher named Casy, and eventullly their conversation is turned to the reasons why Casy left his preaching days behind. He says it better than I can explain:

"Casy spoke again, and his voice rang with pain and confusion. "I says, 'What's this call, this sperit?' An' I says, 'It's love. I love people so much I'm fit to bust, sometimes.' An' I says, 'Don't you love Jesus?' Well, I though an' thought, an' finally I says, 'No, I don't know nobody name' Jesus. I know a bunch of stories, but I only love people. An' sometimes I love em' fit to bust, an' I want to make 'em happy, so I been preachin' somepin I though would make 'em happy.' ...I figgered about the Holy Sperit and the Jesus road, I figgered, 'Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe,' I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit -- the human sperit -- the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a suddent -- I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it."

Now, this is the abridged version of the conversation, but I hope the point came across. Steinbeck brings up this idea again and again in his writings. That we are connected as humans, that our souls should dictate our actions, not our beliefs. That we are bound to each other by love and grace, but not by religious rederic. That we are responsible for ourselves, our choices, our actions, and not sinners that will be brought to justice by a higher being. This idea, the notion of huministic accountibility, is probably the closest thing to faith that I've found. I like the idea that we share a common soul, that we suffer and experience joy together. The tides rise and fall for all of us, and there's not a lot of emotion that hasn't been experienced by each of us.

With that in mind, I bring my thoughts back to Bonnie, her husband, and her family. If this idea is true, if we do share one giant soul, than I offer her what little light and love is in my share. I hope the waiting isn't long, and that her family is on the road to recovery soon. As for the rest of you, feel free to take parts of that as well. In turn, I offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to the many that have shared their love with me.

Sincerely,
h.

The Man Behind the Beard

Dear Readers,

Beyond a handful of pictures I’ve seen from his younger years, I have never seen my dad without a full beard. Never once. It’s safe to say that asking him to shave it off would be equivalent to asking him to cut off his own foot, it’s that much a part of him. My grandma Donna used to threaten to come over and shave it off while my dad was sleeping, but even as a small child I knew it was an empty threat and something she said just to get a rise out of my dad (which he was usually happy to oblige). But I’m not writing this blog about the gloriousness of my father’s facial hair; rather this bit of writing is dedicated to the man behind the beard.

Understandably, some of you are excitedly awaiting to see what sort of hilarious prose I deliver at the expense of my father's ego. It would only be fair, after all of the compromising Christmas letters and humiliating stories he's passed around about me and my sister's throughout the years. What justice would be served by me recounting the time he decided that my birthday would be the best day to fill the attic with insulation (I, the lucky birthday girl, was feeding the bricks of it into the insulation blower. Nothing says "Happy Birthday" like fiber glass burns), and then fell through the ceiling onto Andrea's bed, filling the house with shredded insulation just hours before my party guests were due to arrive? Perhaps you feel that I would get some pleasure out of revealing the time he fell off of the roof of his garage, only to have a neighbor yell at him, "Call the doctor! Call the nurse! Call the lady with the alligator purse!"? But to you I say, this is an article of dignity and substance, not cheap shots at the man who painstakingly raised three well-behaved, beautiful daughters alongside his wife.

There are some of you that probably have not had the distinct pleasure of meeting my dad, David Badger. I can't help but feel sorry for you, as he's a great man to know. Although some might consider him an "expert on rocks", he truly is one of the most intelligent people I know. A reader of fine literature, a lover of history, and a great fan of the Coen Brother's films (I believe I watched "Raising Arizona" more than any other film in my formative years), he always has something interesting to say about what he's reading/writing/watching. He has a great affection for Austria and Germany, having served an LDS mission in Austria, and later becoming a German teacher and making several trips back to the countries he connected so well with. None of us girls speak German, nor have we set foot on the European continent; none-the-less, I (and I'm sure Andrea and Kate would say the same thing) have always felt that I inherited a foreign heritage. Perhaps it was because we had to sing "Silent Night" in German at church once; more likely it was the amount of German pastries and chocolates we've consumed over the years. Regardless, my dad's love of Deutschland was passed down to us.

As I've mentioned in earlier blogs, my love of the outdoors is directly related to my father's influence. Born and raised in Rupert, he is probably the foremost expert on the Mini-Cassia area. His love and connection to both the desert and the mountains of Southern Idaho is deep, and just as much a part of him as his beard. Growing up, on Sunday's we would go on long, arduous drives on the country roads that seemed to lead to nowhere, being forced to listen to Prairie Home Companion. Although I now appreciate the knowledge gained from those drives (sparking my own love of both the terrain and NPR), at the time they were torture. There was nothing worse then being stuck in the backseat of our Pontiac with my obnoxious sisters. Typically by the end of the drive, my dad would blindly reach into the backseat until he could grab onto one of us and give a big shake accompanied by threats to leave us on the side of the road. I'm not sure how he survived us.

My dad is a man of great faith, and I can't help but admire him for it. He's very quietly dedicated to his neighbors and community; it's not rare to call home and have my mom say that he's out of the house helping someone or another. He's set the example for me of what service is. His integrity is unmatched; it's very black and white for him, what's right is what's right. Typically a man of this fashion would have a closed mind, but my dad has always been progressive and open minded. A rarity, indeed.

I find as I get older I see more and more of my dad in me. We are both stubborn, insufferable know-it-alls, and that helped to cause a fight or two between us in the past. We both think that we're the funniest people we know, often found laughing the hardest at our own jokes. We are both work-a-holics. We are both impatient. We both require our space, to be left alone when watching tv or reading, and can only spend very limited amounts of time in noisy and chaotic situations. My annoying habit of singing my boys awake in the morning is a direct result of my father raising me. So very many things; down to the way my eyes crinkle when I smile.

My relationship with my dad has gone full circle. There was a long time where I wondered if I would ever amount to anything that he would be proud of. I think we all worry about things like that at one time or another. But his opinion in-particular has always been the most important to me (regardless of whether I let him know it or not). So you can imagine my relief and joy when he called me as an adult woman in my 30's and told me that he was proud of me, that he respected my life decisions, and that he loved me. I don't know that I've ever left a conversation so moved before. I get choked up just typing about it.

I'm a lucky girl to have David Badger for my dad. I have a fierce sense of pride in my family (even those obnoxious sisters of mine have earned my loyalty), and am grateful to have been raised a Badger Girl. My mom earns a blog of her own, which I'll deliver next month. For my father however, as a little tiny bit of his 60th birthday present, I want to give him this sentiment:

Dad, I'm glad to have your traits. I'm glad I have your influence. I'm proud of you. I respect you. And I love you, so very much.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S. Dad, please remember how kind I've been to you when you sit down to write your next Christmas letter. Feel free to embarrass Kate and Andrea as much as you like; but please, have pity on me.

Where I Belong

Dear Readers,

You know that John Denver song "Country Road", a folksy ballad dedicated to returning to the mountains of his youth? I've been experiencing a similar sentiment the past couple of days. I haven't felt an urge to go back to the mountains so strongly for a long time. The craving is so vivid, my dreams have been infected with visions of tree-lined mountains, feelings of solitude, and the wonderment of realizing just how small I am in this very big world.

My dad never had a son; I believe I was the closest thing to it. Kate and Andrea never showed much interest in the outdoors. I, on the other hand, enjoyed the adventure. I joined him on trips to the desert and lava flows near Kasota, to the mountains and lakes south of Albion, and spent countless Sunday afternoons exploring the Minidoka Dam area. We did everything on these trips from cutting firewood to mapping trails for his scout troop (which I am still bitter that I wasn't allowed to join just because I'm a girl). White water rafting, skiing, backpacking, my dad taught me all of these things.

Later, when I was in high school, I discovered and fell in love with mountain biking. I helped to form the Minico High School Mountain Biking Club, and spent loads of times in the foothills outside of Oakley putting the shocks on my hard earned Schwinn to the test. My friend Monica and I were the only girls in the club, and the guys were more than welcoming to us. We had a blast racing the trails, and I'm sure I made a great impression on them with my sailor vocabulary when I would wreck. That Schwinn and I enjoyed a lot of miles of trail together; when I lived in Logan I continued racing and riding until I was hit by a car on my way home from work. No matter that my head was bleeding and I needed stiches in my leg, my bike was totalled and I was devestated. I haven't been on a trail since. What a shame!

On one college spring break, my friend Melanie and I went on a road trip from Logan to southern New Mexico to visit her family. On the way, we stopped to camp in Moab, Utah. It was dark when we got to our campsite and clumsely set up our tent as best we could with flashlights. It was colder than I expected, and I struggled to sleep. Finally, at first light, I climbed out of the tent to start a fire and witnessed what is easily the most beautiful sunrise I have ever experienced. I wish I could describe in great detail the warm, gold light as filled the red canyon with contrasting dimensions of shadows and stone. We drove through the red desert, eventually making our way through a vast sage brush filled country to the white sand dunes outside Alamagordo and finally to the snow capped mountains where her parents lived. Melanie is an outdoorsman to her core, and she and I had a great time on that trip, hiking whenever we got the chance and taking time to appreciate the solitude of the desert.

For my 30th birthday, I had the great pleasure of introducing "my boys" to one of my favorite places on the face of the planet: the City of Rocks. I grew up visiting there with my dad, and remember loving it from a very young age. The pioneers wound their way through the rocks on the Oregon Trail, and you can still see where they wrote their names and messages, as well as the seemingly permanent ruts of their wagons. Shay, Chris, Aaron, PL, Loren, and I had a blast climbing and exploring. We all slept in the same tent, and all woke feeling like we had slept on a rock. It is one of my favorite memories.

I can already hear the call of the Sawtooths, even though I won't make it there until late spring at the earliest. Zion's National Park and Bryce Canyon are beckoning me from afar. Even the small trails in Hagerman are singing my name. I've made a resolution to ignore the pains of my joints, pull my backpacking tent out of it's hiding spot, load up my 15 year old pack, strap on my boots and hike up that country road, to where I belong.

Sincerely,
h.

The Misery of Youth

Dear Readers,

I rode into the 1990's holding to the dirty flannel shirt wrapped around my older sister's waist. The very early years were lost in my childhood, but I made up for them quickly during my awkward tweens. Full of angst and hormones and armed with a very small collection of grunge cd's, I traded my bright Cross-Colors Malcolm X shirts (because no one can identify with the trials of civil injustice quite like a 12 year old white girl from Rupert, Idaho), for plaid shirts, thrift store cardigans, and a pair of fake Doc Martins.

I was reminded by all of this a few weekends ago, when late one night with Shay out with the boys and Lucas asleep in bed, I found myself watching the Cameron Crowe documentary "PJ20", about the beginnings and goings on of the band Pearl Jam. Conincidentally, I also dug out all of my old journals that same weekend, and spent a couple of hours being thoroughly entertained by my much younger self.

Like a lot of the music from those days, my journal pages were filled with themes of loathing and longing, a bipolar roller coaster of elation and dispair. I wrote of specific songs during that time, honestly believing that I had problems in common with the likes of Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. Why not? Why wouldn't a good mormon girl who had never been to a bigger city than Salt Lake have much in common with heroin addicted rock starts? Clearly, it was a time when emotion took presidence over reason.

At the time I was quite sure I was the quintisential misunderstood teenager, and I was eyes deep in a misunderstood generation. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, they were our voice. I remember clearly memorizing the words to Pearl Jam's song "Jeremy", and standing in front of my 9th grade speech class, reciting it as poetry, and sitting down in my seat thinking to myself, "No one in here understands the meaning of that song but me." Ha! Such confidence for someone with such limited life experience.

Later in my teens, while attending Minico High School, I went through some seemingly traumatic surgeries. I had been diagnosed with an extrememly rare skin disorder, which required a sizeable piece of my scalp to be removed. In preparation for the removal, a tissue expander was implanted on the left side of my head, and every week I had injections of saline put into the expander. It was extraordinalry painful, the stretching of my skin. By the time it was filled to capacity, it was about the size of a softball. My hair was cut short. My peers were cruel. My soccer career was over. Conincidentally, that awful band "The Presidents of the United States" released the song "Lump" during this time; I hate them still. I remember coming out of the second surgery, after everything was removed, and looking in the mirror to a horror scene. A nylon stocking of sorts holding my mess of a head together, my face swollen and my eyes blackened, and all I could do was cry. A mistake from the doctor resulted in more surgeries than originally planned, going through my senior year of high school. The strangest thing about this experienece, is that not a word about it was written in my journals. Not one, single word. In fact, this might be the first time I've written about the experience at length. Instead there is page after page of emotional vomit; entries of length on music; horrible poetry and drawings concerning crush's and my prettier friends of whom I was green with jealousy. The later pages desciribing my questions in faith and the beginnings of an existential crisis.

As The nineties ended I was entering adulthood. A year and a half at Utah State, a stint in Washington D.C., and then finding myself in Boise helped to curb my self-loathing and I found that maybe life wasn't as bad as I had assumed. The music scene made a transition along side me; while Pearl Jam survived, the grunge scene in general was lost. I found what I needed more and more in hip-hop and indy-rock. I stuck to some classics (The Smashing Pumpkins, The Cure, The Smith's...a whole lotta "The's"), and embraced a music culture that was bigger than me and I understood it as such. My journals were not so desperate, but far more introspective.

So after watching that documentary, 20 years of a single band, I was touched and a bit emotional. I would love to be able to go back, and whisper to my younger self that things aren't that bad. Yes, there are people who are mean, who will say awful and horrible things. Yes, there is saddness and dark times. Yes, there are times even when you're surrounded by people who love you that you will feel disengaged and lonely. But overall, the majority of days will be good days, and that yes, you are beautiful, and yes, you are talented, and yes, you will be a catalyst to others. Most importantly, I would ask myself to please throw away that disgusting flannel shirt and dress with some dignity because, let's be honest, nothing says "desperate" more than a pair of fake Doc Martin's.

Sincerely,
h.