Lucas Turns 8, great Great GREAT!

Dear Readers,

This coming Saturday marks a very important and significant occasion. As of 10:00am November 12, 2011, Lucas turns 8 years old. I know your first thought is, "Wow! I didn't know Heather had a baby when she was in high school!" Although I'm flattered by your suggestion that I am much younger than I am, this blog is about my son, not me.

Yesterday he and I were driving to my sister Kate's house for Sunday dinner. We were having a conversation about his upcoming birthday party when he said something (for the life of me I can't remember what it was) that sounded just like something Loren would have said. I don't know how I've missed it until now, but it occurred to me that he has come into his own personality and it's spiced and sweetened with the personalities of those who have been around him most. I got a little choked up at the thought of him getting so big, and even more choked up in considering how fortunate I've been as a mother to have such wonderful people around to help in the raising of Lucas. Here are just a few examples:



The above picture is of my Grandma Hazel and my Grandpa Cal. Unfortunately they both left this Earth before Lucas joined it, but they are influential none-the-less. Lucas' middle name, Calvin, is after this great man. He set a benchmark example in compassion for me, and in turn for Lucas. Without a doubt, Lucas is one of the most loving and compassionate people I've ever had the pleasure to meet, and I would like to think it comes from his Braegger DNA (not to mention the Badgers, the Rices and the Plummers). He definitely lives up to his namesake.





Lucas has some of the best grandparents a kid could ask for. Grandma Kristie, Papa David, Grandma Paula, and Papa John have been important and constant figures in his life since day one. He loves to visit Rupert to visit King's and go on outdoor adventures with the Grandparents Badger. Riding motorcycles and finding other ways to freak out his mom is a favorite pastime with Papa John. And any minute spent with Grandma Paula is amazing and looked forward to. You can see any and all of his grandparents in Lucas, and he knows just how lucky he is to have such a loving bunch of them.





On any given day, Aunt Andrea or Aunt Kate (my sisters) will take credit for raising Lucas. Both would be right. Lucas loves them both very much, and loves to spend time with them. He inherited Andrea's love of marshmallow milkshakes and Kate's scorn for anything stupid. When asked which is his favorite aunt, he is very diplomatic (and very much like his Grandma Kristie) when he says he loves them both the same. Uncle AJ is always down for a good excuse to play video games, and Lucas is always happy to oblige.



I carry a little guilt over the fact that Lucas is an only child. I think back to my days of fighting incessantly with my sisters, and can't help but think that maybe he's missing out on something. Then again, where Lucas lacks in siblings, he gained in cousins. Sam, Elise, Jack, Lucy, Annie, and especially Max have filled what would otherwise be a sibling less void in his life. They laugh, they fight, they get into crazy mischief and usually end up in some sort of trouble together. He is lucky to have such a great group of cousins to learn the ways of the world with. If anything else, Lucy has taught him a very colorful vocabulary indeed.






For most people friends come and go. For the Plummer's, they stay the same. Chris, Loren, Jason (not pictured), Aaron, Andrew, P.L., Jenny (not pictured), Saratops, not to mention a few others throughout the years (that means you, Drew and Lacey) have been some of the biggest influences in Lucas' life. He's learned valuable life skills from them, such as how to survive a street gang attack, the proper handling of a bull whip, and the sweet satisfaction of beating a bunch of adult men at Battlefield. He's also learned the importance of friendship by watching the camaraderie between us grow, and recognizes this group of extraordinary people as family. His snark, his sense of humor, his sense of responsibility, and his ability to order his mom coffee at Dawsons and his own bagel at Alia's has all been derived from his friend family. And at least once a week he says to me, "Boy I sure do miss Loren.", once again demonstrating that sweet, compassionate side of him.



Lucas has the most amazing imagination, and usually chooses to show it through drawing. He gets that from his dad. Lucas can convince you that he's listening, and then shake his little head and ask, "What were you saying?". He gets that from his dad. Video games, fascination with science fiction, Star Wars, and the biggest little heart this side of the Mississippi, all of them attributes of his father. Calm and patient, loving and thoughtful, soft spoken and a critical thinker, all indications that Lucas is Shay's son. Really, he couldn't ask for a better dad, and we're both lucky to have him.



As for me, well, I'm not too sure what I've given Lucas besides my eyes and an extra tender heart. But I know that he has given me a few things. I didn't know I wanted to be a mom until he was born, and at that I point I realized I could never imagine not being one. He's taught me the value of taking your sweet time. He helped my heart to grow to an unprecedented size. Lucas has instilled in me a sense of devotion and loyalty that knows no boundaries. Everything in my world shifted when he entered into it, leaving it a far sunnier and fun place to be.

So I ask you, dear readers, to join me in wishing young Lucas a superb and memorable 8th year of life. May it be as sweet and fun and as wonderful as he is.

Sincerely,
h.

There's a Song in My Heart (and it's Probably From the Nineties)

Dear Readers,

Music has been on my mind a lot lately. Literally. I've had my iPod plugged into my head for hours on end, wondering what tricks I can use to make Animal Collective play louder, or being caught rapping along with Dr. Dre. Occasionally I pop one ear bud out and tap it into Lucas' little ear and have an impromptu dance session in the living room. I've even been streaming my favorite classical piano music, pining away for a keyboard to play on. Day and night I've got a beat in my head and I just can't seem to get over it.

Now, please understand this is not a negative place for me to be. Between Shay and I we have over a months worth of music. Can you imagine? We could go through the entire month and never hear the same song twice with our stereo going 24 hours a day. Take out the dub step and some of the other crap Shay tries to pretend is listenable, and you're guarenteed at least 25 days worth of good music. So I have taken on this insatiable craving as a challenge to listen to songs and bands I'm not familiar with. And you know what I've found? Some real gems, like Pretty Lights and CocoRosie. I also included some blasts from the past like The Talking Heads and a few old PJ Harvey albums. Fantastic stuff. And if you haven't listened to the new albums out from Bjork or the Beastie Boys you're missing out.

At this point you might assume that I'm going to tell you what a music snob I am; that I have albums that no one has ever heard of. That I will mock your taste in music regardless of what name you drop. Unless you're my sister Andrea, I assure you that's not the case. In fact, I've realized that I am stuck in a music rut. Despite my recent exploration of our music library, I pretty much listen to the same albums and bands over and over. So, in no particular order, here is the list of the top 10 albums I've listened to consistently for the last few years:

1. Radiohead: In Rainbows
2. Radiohead: Hail to the Thief
3. The White Stripes: White Blood Cells
4: Handsome Boy Modeling School: White People
5: The Shins: Chutes to Narrow
6: Badly Drawn Boy: Have You Fed the Fish?
7: Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits
8: The Beatles: The White Album
9: LCD Soundsystem: Sound of Silver
10: Seu Jorge: The Life Aquatic

You can tell just about everything you need to know about me from this list. The only thing more revealing would be my reading list, but that's an entirely different blog. Also, there are individual songs that I listen to over and over, like a teenager newly in love or with a fresh broken heart, depending on the day. Loren's song "Honce" is played almost every day (and with a sip of PBR spilled on the sidewalk in his honor). Hot Chip's "My Baby Said" is consistently stuck in my head. Why's "Gemini" is a gift from the heaven's and never gets old.

Regardless, I feel like I have finally become old enough that I have a hard time believing that music is going to improve over what has already been made. It's a ridiculous concept, I know. Of course there will be new amazing artists and songs. But I just don't care anymore, not like I used to anyway. I can feel my arthritic self settling into this next phase of life where my interests and cares are shifted from pop culture to other distractions, like tea or crocheting. No longer will I lay next to my stereo speaker, listening to Led Zeppelin like I was the first person to discover them. Never again shall I come face to face with my rock idol and say "I love you!" like a complete jackass. There are only a handful of bands that I would pay over $50 to see live. And festivals that go on for days remind me of some sort of torture.

So I'll just settle into my rocking chair with my cat on my lap and my iPod on shuffle, enjoying the sounds that take me back to a time when I spent all my money and time on the music that's still pumping through my headphones.

Sincerely,
h.

And Here We Have Idaho

Dear Readers,

I had the honor and the privilege of attending my friend Jessica's wedding in Salt Lake City this past weekend. The sunset ceremony overlooking the Salt Lake valley was beautiful, the food and dancing were divine, but spending time with Jessica and the Knickerbocker family and their friends was the most enjoyable part of the weekend for me. I haven't met a whole lot of people from New Jersey in my lifetime, but I now have several New Jersians (yes, I just made that word up) that I can call friends.

These new friends of mine got a lot of pleasure out of making fun of Idaho. You know, the usual potato jokes (or the corn jokes for those who confused us with Iowa), or the wondering of where Idaho is geographically located, and the genuine surprise that we were normal, functioning people who don't have thick country drawls or bib overalls. After the novelty wore off, however, I was able to convince at least one or two of them that Idaho is a wonderful place and "...if you would only give it a chance you would fall in love with it!"!

12 years ago, I moved back to Idaho and was making my plans to move away from it again soon. Obviously, my plans fell through. At the time, I didn't have a good word to say about it. Still bitter and resentful of my experience growing up in a small town with some awfully small minded people, I wasn't able to recognize how unique and fortunate I was to be from Southern Idaho. As I've grown and matured, my love and affection for my home state has become more and more obvious and a part of me. It's no wonder, really; I'm part of the 4th generation on one side and 3rd generation on the other to be born and raised in Idaho. My family has been in this state before it was called one. They were the first to work the land they lived on, they helped to build and make mines profitable, and they were some of the earliest workers in the sugar industry that still contributes greatly to the state's economy.

My Grandpa Jack was born in Stanrod, Idaho, right on the Utah border. My Grandma Donna was born in Burley, Idaho near where the courthouse stands now. My Grandpa Cal was born in Malta, Idaho. And my Grandma Hazel was born in Rigby (also the birthplace of television). Both of my parents were born in Rupert, and my sister's and I were all born within 2 1/2 hours of it. I guess you could say, this state is a part of my family heritage. Our roots run deep here, and although I didn't realize it until just the last couple years, there's something to sticking close to your roots.

Beyond the sage brush and farmland of southern Idaho, when you drive the stretch of freeway between Rupert and Boise (known for it's peculiar stench, wacky roadside attractions like the now defunct "Jet Ski Pond", and long empty space between Mountain Home and anywhere else), you follow the pathway of my heart. Although my family keeps me connected to Southern Idaho, my heart and mind rest in Boise.

Boise and I have been through a lot together. Growing up I'd look forward to my week long trips to my Aunt Ruth's house on Desert Avenue more than anything else. I've viewed every inch of the city from the top of Table Rock, to the highest peak at Wild Waters and back down to the end of Hill Road. I've watched friends come and go and then come back again (it's a hard lesson to learn that life is life no matter where you go, but life in Boise ain't that bad). I got married here. I had my son here. I've watched my nieces and nephews be born and grow up here. I've made a solid second family of friends here. I've witnessed the power of community, the kindness this city has to offer, and have first hand experienced the love the city offers in both tragic and joyous situations.

Beyond Boise's borders, I have to give shout-outs to the rest of the state: Stanley and all that beautiful land they call the Sawtooths, your beauty is as breathtaking as your lakes are cold; Northern Idaho where your enthusiasm, whether it be for white supremacy or scenery, helps to make this great state unforgettable; to the rivers and lakes, the snowy peaks and lava flows, to every ski hill and pile of manure, I salute you and I sing your praises. I hope to represent Idaho well. For it is, in my mind, the greatest state in this nation. Even if it is as red as the day is long.

Sincerely,
h.

Canning Peaches: A DIY Journey of a Lifetime

Dear Readers,

Recently, I became a proud member of Pinterest (please see pinterest.com if you don't know what I'm talking about) and have had the chance to read several wonderful step by step, DIY, beautifully done instructional blogs for the crafty and talented. In an effort to meet and/or exceed the instructional blog expectations, I'm summoning the power of my mormon-family blood and am going to show you how to can peaches, Badger-Girl style.

Having not been to church in a few years, I was having a hard time finding my inner-homemaker, so I recruited the help of my younger awesome (and church going) sister, Kate. And so our journey to home canned peaches began in Kate's mini-van, with our ever faithful helpers, Lucas, Lucy, and Annie.



Kate and I are big fans of Williamson's Orchards in the Sunny Slope area of Marsing. As we were nearing the beautiful Snake River Valley, Lucas informed me that he wasn't feeling so well and then puked all over the floor of the van. Lucy was kind of grossed out, but not enough to turn off her DVD. And Annie could care less, all she wanted was a Diet Coke and a sucker. But after some clean up and a stop at a super creepy gas station, we finally made it to the orchards. I had a brief minute of calm, long enough to take this picture:



We bought our boxes of peaches in record time to keep the children from hurting themselves or others at the family friendly farm stand. On the drive back, Lucas asked Lucy if they could watch "Coraline". Lucy's reply was direct and to the point: "No. I'm never watching "Coraline" again because you puked on it like a jack-ass."

When we finally made it back to Boise, we decided the peaches needed to ripen before we canned them. Also, we smelled like vomit and farm stand and felt like a mini-van full of jack-asses. So fast forward two days, and we've finally reached canning day!

So here's how you do it:

Step One: Buy one hell of a lot of peaches. We bought two boxes. That's roughly equivalent to 18,000 peaches.



Step Two: Hire a crazy one year old to help take peaches out of the box and hide throughout the house. That way, you won't get bored with the rest of the steps. Remind said baby that the fire place is the perfect place to hide peaches.



Step Three: Buy and sanitize a whole bunch of jars. If you don't want to buy them, clear out your fridge of all the unused condiments (ie mayonnaise, old moldy jam, and the half a bottle of kalamata olives you had to pretend to like at a dinner party you had) and wash out those bottles as good as you can. We just bought the jars.



Step Four: Blanch the peaches by putting them in a pot of boiling water for 30 seconds, and then putting them in an ice bath. Try to burn yourself while doing this to keep your senses sharp and on high alert. Swear as needed.



Step Five: Spend the next several hours of your life skinning and slicing peaches and putting them in their jars. Try your hardest to get peach juice all over your counters and floors so that you have a satisfying coating of fruit adhesive to clean up when you're done.



Step Six: Make a sugar syrup on the stove. Pour over peaches in the jars and then put the lids on tight. Do not take a picture of this step because nobody wants to see this vital part of the process.

Step Seven: Buy a lot of canning equipment. Luckily, Kate already did this step so I didn't have to pay for it.

Step Eight: Put the jars filled with peaches and syrup in the jar holder thing. Don't let the jars touch each other (they need to be a Bible's width apart like at a church dance). Immerse in big pot of boiling water. At this point, you want to make sure your kitchen is at a nice humid 109 degrees.



Step Nine: Let the jars boil for a really long time. Try to make as many jars of peaches as possible in a day, but only boil six jars at a time to really draw out the process. Also, it's best for a screaming baby to enter the kitchen when it's time to remove the jars, and try to entice them into touching one of the bottles that just came out of the boiling pot of water. That way every jar you pull out is a reminder of the way you disfigured a child for life.



Step Ten: Wait. And wait. And wait some more. Eventually the lid should make a little *pop* noise, signaling your success as a canner. All of ours popped and with each sweet little noise an angel smiled.



Step Eleven: Find a place in your two bedroom apartment to store 24 jars of peaches. And you're done! Now that you've put all that work, sweat, puke, and swearing into a couple dozen jars of fruit, try to avoid ever opening one bottle for fear of realizing all the work you put into it is only worth about 3 minutes of eating enjoyment.

Woila! DIY blog, h.-style! Not only did the peaches take forever, but this blog did to. I'm never teaching you, my sweet and devoted readers, to make anything ever again.

Sincerely,
h.

The Blame has Been Placed

Dear Readers,

I was just reading some of my earliest blogs out loud to Shay. We were chuckling and having a gay ol' time when Shay pointed out that my writing has become rather serious. "You used to be so funny!" said Shay. I can't help but agree, I was pretty damn funny (please visit my blogs from 2010 if you don't know what I'm talking about). I feel that the death of my best friend has caused me to lose some of my sense of humor, and so I would like to make it official: I blame you, Loren.

Earlier this evening I was at dinner at the Red Feather with my sweet and close friend Jenny. Inevitably, the conversation moved to Loren. Loren this and Loren that and do you remember when Loren said blah blah blah. Loren, Loren, Lojo. I would be the biggest liar and fraud in the world if I said I don't think of him multiple times a day. I would be an even bigger liar (we're talking career politician sized liar) if i said I didn't shed a tear a least once a day because I miss him to my absolute core. Because I do. And if he could hear me, he would hear me say: "Please, please, come home. I miss you. I love you. My life, my family, is not the same without you."

So maybe I did lose some of my funny. But more than that, I lost one of my closest friends. A book I read recently said that Americans don't let themselves mourn correctly. That it's easier and more socially acceptable to sweep things under the rug, to shuffle the sad days into the deck of life, and pretend like they didn't happen. Get back to work! Go back to school! Keep yourself busy enough that you won't feel feelings anymore! But when you put it under a microscope you can't help but see, the sadness and helplessness you feel when you mourn cannot be solved by a hard days work or a day of busy distractions. As Tom Robbins said, "It is what it is. You are what you it. There are no mistakes."

With that sentiment in mind, I'm still funny. I can make people laugh. I can make people happy. I still make delightful treats and overly lavish my friends and family with an abundance of nurturing and concern. But I can miss my friend at the same time. Because the fact of the matter is, Loren was a part, a huge part, of my day to day life. And things just haven't been the same with him gone and it's better for me to acknowledge that then it is for me to pretend that his death was just another part of life. But one day, perhaps tomorrow or maybe a year from now, I'll be just as funny as I was when I started this blog a year and a half ago.

Sincerely,
h.

Submission

Dear Readers,

My mind hasn't been working correctly lately. Simple things like speaking, writing, and thinking have been more difficult than usual. I'm sure when my sister Andrea reads this, she'll laugh to herself thinking, "You were only one or two steps ahead of a sack of hammers anyway, I don't know why this comes as a surprise to you now...". Regardless, I've tried and tried again to write a thoughtful and delightful blog for you, but keep failing miserably.

In an effort to keep faith in my writing alive, I thought I would post my submission to the "One Minute Idaho" writing contest. Will I win? It's doubtful. None-the-less, I'm proud that I was able to condense this infamous story down to 118 words. For those of you that already know it, my apologies for being redundant. For those of you who have yet to experience the wonderment of the collective genius of the Badger sister's, I hope you enjoy (and yes, it's all true). Without further ado, my submission:


“This will be so funny!” My older sister exclaimed. Having spent the weekend in Boise with my aunt, we were preparing for the long ride home to Rupert. She made two signs; one said “HELP US”, the other said “SAVE US”.

The faces people make when they see teenage girls in the back of an Oldsmobile holding up these signs is priceless. Unbeknownst to us, a plan was made. Our car was surrounded by semi-trucks and stopped by the Twin Falls exit. Horrified, we watched the burly truckers come to our rescue, only to be angered and annoyed to find that we were not captives. We were just the daughters of the now irate man driving the car.

And there you have it. If I win, I get to have some sort of crazy night snorting cocaine and going to a rave with Ira Glass. Well, go to a meet and greet with him anyway. If I lose, well, I have to pay $75 if I want to catch a glimpse of the NPR icon. So for his sake, I hope I win, otherwise he won't see this pretty face anywhere near the Morrison Center.

Sincerely,
h.

Thirty New, Look at You

Dear Readers,

Today is the last day of my 31st year of life. How did I spend it, you ask? Well, it started with a cup of coffee and some meditation (I like to counter balance my relaxation sessions with a nice jolt of caffeine), then a full day of being busy at work, coming home and doing some yoga (which to my horror my husband and mother-in-law walked in on me in my way too tight yoga pants in a compromising position), catching up with my mom-in-law, and making dinner. That's as far as I've gotten, and considering that it's almost 8:00pm, the only thing exciting after this is watching an episode of "American Pickers". That's it.

At this moment, my 19 year old self is puking her much thinner guts up, disgusted by the ordinary display of existence that her life will become. Where are the glamorous parties, the rich friends, the successful high paying career, and the city life I dreamed of and worked so hard for in my younger days? Thankfully, gratefully, and boastfully I say to my younger self: "You may be more intellectual and prettier than me, but you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

After reviewing last year's birthday blog, dreading the woes of turning 31 (thirty-fun), I slapped myself in the face and snapped out of it. My friends Michael and Loren taught me a valuable lesson in that I'm lucky to have made it this far (by the way boys, if this is your way of proving a point, I hope there's an after life so I can beat the crap out of you). As one of those good books says, "Tomorrow is not promised" (or something like that). So on that note, I'm welcoming year 32 with open arms and an open heart. I'm no longer dreading getting older. I look forward to it! Do you realize, in 10 years my son (my sweet angel baby boy) will be graduating from high school and going to college? As much as I absolutely dread that, do you know how young 42 is to start over with your freedom. So young (take that 19 year old self)! But let's not jump too far ahead, 32 is enough for now.

My plans for my 32nd year are grand: travel to distant lands, growing in my job, getting my health back in control, loving my friends and my family, getting tattooed, and smoking crack are all on the plan of attack (just kidding about that last one, Mom). So much to do in a year! My main ambition, however, is to live my life one day at a time, and savor the gifts that life gives me. Shay and Lucas mock me when I tell them not to buy me presents, but what they don't understand is that getting to have them and our friends and family in my life everyday is gift in itself. Wow, I've grown sentimental in my old age!

So let's raise our glasses to me, in celebration of my next big adventure. In the vain of Jenny Rice, here's to Thirty Two, Thirty New!

Sincerely,
h.