Category Archives: Personal Essays

Short pieces of a long life

Personal Essays

Sobriety, Walking, and Veg/Fruit Juice

I’ve been sober 6 months, and I feel fine! Up until then, the longest I’d gone without drinking was 31 days, white-knuckling and isolating, until joining the fun again. Strange how quickly I’d bounce back to my previous level of drinking. Making up for lost time, I suppose. Truthfully, I haven’t enjoyed alcohol in years, suffering from heartburn, brain fog, headaches, and worry that I might’ve said something hurtful or stupid. Or, worse, I’d forgotten something serious told to me in my inebriated state. But I continued imbibing for the same reasons many do—to fit in, or at the very least, to not stand out.

Solving both of these issues, I now quietly order near beer or club soda with lemon wedge served in a cocktail glass. And for hosting at home, I bought special goblets, so no one’s the wiser. The rest of the time, I stick with water.

Athletic Brewing Company. They deliver!

My experience isn’t unique. Many of us have similar stories of partying hard in our twenties: acting like fools, becoming increasingly obnoxious, getting sick, and/or stumbling to bed. But for some, including me, it continues into our thirties, and forties, and so on. Life events, big or small, happy or tragic, became excuses to drink. And, I was convinced I didn’t have a problem by comparing myself to those who drank more than I, yet still functioned. Dumb, but effective.

Thinking back to my 18th birthday, legally drinking with friends at dive bars in Texas after a high school dance, I wish I could tell myself, “It’s all hype. You won’t miss anything if you choose not to drink.” Would I have listened? Doubtful. But I still wonder what I might’ve accomplished had alcohol not been so much a part of my adult life. I think my biggest fear was I’d be too boring or too bored if I didn’t have alcohol to ease my awkwardness. I’ve come to realize it caused me to be both.

But through all my angst, I’d ignored the bigger issue. Genetics! As I aged, alcohol troubled me in ways it had done my father. I became angry, belligerent, and came dangerously close to ruining a dear friendship by projecting my grievances, those I hated in myself, onto someone else. Repairing that relationship will take time, but I’m willing to do the work, because it means that much to me. But, something positive arose from the ashes. That terrible incident, six months ago, was the catalyst I needed to quit an abusive habit.

But, wait, there’s more! Giving up alcohol was only the beginning…

I’m walking again! 5-6 days weekly. 60+ minutes or 3+ miles per session, whichever is longer. Bonus: It’s a great way to catch up on movies and/or listen to new and/or favorite music. On rainy days, I’m on the treadmill. In dry weather, I walk the neighborhood.

Treadmill Session (Bear Buns T-Shirt by Seattle artist Henry).
Sunny day in January, overlooking Shilshole Bay in Seattle.

I’m getting my daily dose of fruits and veggies—the easy way by blending them altogether. You’d think with my being vegan, this wouldn’t be an issue. But my go-to meals are usually filled with legumes and grains, because I don’t like the taste or consistency of cooked vegetables. And I rarely reach for fruit, as protein bars are my usual snack.

Ingredients for Veg/Fruit Juice.
Veg/Fruit Juice – Ready to Drink Meal.

There are tons of recipes to choose from, but I keep mine as simple as possible: 2 cups cooled green tea, 2 kale stalks, 1 banana, 1 cup frozen berries, 2 tbsp. ground flaxseed, 2 tbsp. shredded coconut, 2 tbsp. pumpkin seeds, and 1 packet Liquid IV (orange). On occasion, I add half an avocado and/or 1 cup creamy oat milk. Yum!

After six months of sobriety, and one full week of veg/fruit juice and walking, I feel so much more alive! My mind is sharper. My body is stronger. My spirit is lighter. Plus, these habits will keep me healthier as I transition into my elder years. And, best of all, I’m no longer interested in or tempted by alcohol. Thank goodness!

Personal Essays

House Wedding

When I moved to Seattle from Arlington, Texas in September 1989, I was ill prepared for the rapidly decreasing daylight, SAD inducing gray skies, and an entire month of rain in June. Spending most of my free time alone, I gained twenty pounds with a steady diet of top ramen, Minute rice, and wrapped cheese slices. Working 10 hour days and countless weekends hadn’t helped me find friends. Nor, it seemed, had my thick southern accent.

Taking pity on me and/or tired of the whining, my boss suggested I join his ski club to meet new people and become familiar with surrounding areas. I told him I was an abysmal skier and that my muscles had atrophied. He dismissed my excuses, assuring me the ski club offered various activities throughout the seasons, including movie nights, happy hour meet & greets, leisurely bike rides, and summer concerts at the zoo. Convinced and a wee bit excited, I signed up for an inexpensive carpool trip to Mt. Baker for spring skiing. And, while others careened downhill in freezing temperatures, I lounged in an overstuffed chair at the lodge and read by the fireplace. The slight difference from my normal routine was that I socialized at dinner.

On the Saturday night of the trip, a woman and I got to talking about dating. While sipping beer, I answered her rapid fire questions. What’s more important, humor or ambition? “Humor.” How do you feel about divorce? “Depends on the circumstances.” Age preference? “The closer to mine, the better.” Little did I know she already had a person in mind. On Monday night at the club’s annual elections, held at the now-defunct Rainier Brewery, she introduced me to John. I was immediately charmed by his genuine smile and easygoing personality. And, we were both Star Trek fans!

Early days in our relationship (around the time we jumped out of a plane together).

I remember the moment I fell in love with John. Mere months into our casual dating, the ski club hosted a boat cruise for an evening on Lake Washington. We both wanted to go, but complications arose when my company scheduled a last-minute work event. For logistical reasons, John and I talked about meeting at the dock, but the time would be tight, and the boat wouldn’t wait for me. Anticipating my anxiety, mostly due to directional challenges pre-GPS, John drove the exact route I’d need to follow and noted every single turn. Knowing him now, I believe he would’ve stayed behind if I hadn’t arrived in time.

With John’s patience and gentle instruction, I learned to love skiing.

Two years after we met, John and I moved in together. And in 1996, we spent most of our savings on the down payment for a pre-WWII, 1980s-updated, Cape Cod in Ballard. Whatever funds remained, and with a little ingenuity and tons of help from friends, we held our wedding on a lovely summer afternoon in our backyard. We couldn’t afford a honeymoon, and every time we paid the mortgage, we said, “Hooray! We can stay in the house another month!”

Here’s a toast to the beautiful day!

Fast forward to late 2020, and we were extremely grateful to still be living in this house, especially after a difficult year. And, we were pretty dang proud of ourselves for doing a great job of keeping the property maintained on a shoestring budget. But, on December 21st, a heavy rainstorm pummeled an already saturated earth, and groundwater flooded our fully-finished basement. Ours wasn’t the only flood in the area, nor was it the worst. Employees at professional water extraction companies were stretched thin, and we waited hours for help. It took 10 days for all the flooring to be removed and for the basement to completely dry.

After rerouting two downspouts, we thought our troubles were behind us, but on January 2nd, the basement tried to flood again. For 16 hours straight without food or sleep, John and I used two shop vacs to remove 900+ gallons (approx. 7500 pounds) of rain water. By morning, we held the water at bay on the north side wall in our TV room. On this go around, a beautiful storage bench, custom-built and installed by John’s brother, was destroyed. It had been protecting our skis and gear, but it also covered what we’re now calling a “babbling brook” in the broken cement. Once a temporary sump pump was in place, the floor dried. Cause of this near-flood? Another ineffectual downspout. But during closer inspection, we found multiple maintenance issues in and around our house—ones we’d been too complacent to notice.

Front yard rockery in 1996.

As with anyone who’s been in a long term relationship, John and I have good days and bad. Often, we’re amazed at the luck that brought us together and led us to our ideal home. Other times, we’re on the brink of uncoupling and selling this money pit. Most times, we’re skating from one joy and challenge to the next as we go about our daily lives.

The corner where we said our vows.

At our wedding, the promises John and I made to each other came naturally, because we’d already clocked five years. But what about our new partner? Our home? “For richer.” “For poorer.” “In sickness.” “In health.” By saying “I do” in our backyard, we essentially committed to the house as well. It’s taken good care of us over the years by keeping us safe and warm. Our time has come to reciprocate by making it healthy and whole again.

According to a Chinese proverb, “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.” This is our year of healing the past and preparing for the future as much as fate allows. We’re a powerful team, we three. Here’s to the next 25 years together, mes amis!



Personal Essays

The Cookie Tree

When I was a wee babe of 9 months, our family of five moved from Salt Lake City to Delta Junction—a tiny town at the end of the Alaskan Highway, approximately 90 miles SE of Fairbanks. At the time, Delta Junction had a population of approximately 500 and has never recorded more than 1000. Through the years, my parents remained good friends with the next door couple who rented to us. At one point, the four of them idly talked of moving both families to Australia. And, much later, they vacationed together there.

Delta Junction, Alaska (me)

Of course I don’t remember the move to Alaska, but I do hold a few memories of my life before our family relocated to Las Vegas three years later. Certain stories come to mind, some from family lore, such as the moose that stuck his head through our trailer’s kitchen window, my little sister being born during a blizzard, my near-drowning in the Delta River, and Anchorage suffering through a 9.2 magnitude earthquake. But those stories are for another time. This one is about my mother’s knack for making the best of difficult situations, especially where her children were concerned.

Delta Junction, Alaska (two neighbor kids, my brother, and me)

Why, you might wonder, would anyone move to Alaska in November? As it so happens, my parents were looking for a fresh start after my father was fired from his position at a grocery store. When it was discovered two employees were embezzling funds, Dad was held accountable as he was the hiring manager, and he took too long in detecting the theft. Word got around to other stores in the area, and my father lost confidence in securing a new job. So we migrated north where he found work as manager of the PX at Fort Greely. And soon afterward, as was typical everywhere we moved, my mother was hired as a nurse at a local clinic.

Salt Lake City, Utah (Mom and me)

Although my parents brought appropriate clothing and rented adequate lodging, our household items were left behind in Salt Lake to be shipped later by my grandparents. Thus, when Christmas approached the following month, we had no decorations. Having little to do in the near-constant darkness of Alaska’s winter, Mom hatched a plan that became a years-long family tradition. She whipped up batches of sugar cookies and cut them into shapes of stars, bells, wreaths, and trees. Before popping them into the oven, she pushed a thimble into the dough to create a small hole at the top of each. Once the cookies cooled, she iced them with red-, green-, yellow- and blue-dyed powdered-sugar frosting. And after my father dragged a tree inside, my mom hung cookies on every limb using yarn from her knitting case.

Glimpse of Cookie Tree – Arlington, Texas (in the kitchen with my older sister peeking through the branches and me with my baby doll)

Over the years, other edibles were added, such as candy canes and popcorn balls, but the cookies were the only constant. One full day in the second week of every December, our house was a flurry of flour. My mom enlisted the whole family and stationed us along her makeshift assembly line. No one was exempt, and truthfully, we’d be disappointed if we were. Here’s a picture of me with Roman Meal bread bags wrapped around a cast on my right arm—a break that happened from a fall after attempting to skip two rungs on the monkey bars in first grade.

Las Vegas, Nevada

While living in Texas, we invited the neighbor kids for a holiday party, everyone bringing a gift to share. After singing carols up and down the streets, we circled back to the house and devoured the cookies off the tree, avoiding the ones at the bottom the dog had clearly licked. All the while, my sweet mom ladled hot cocoa into mugs filled with marshmallows. The sugar highs must’ve lasted for hours.

Arlington, Texas (brother, me, little sister, big sister)

I can’t find a picture of the full tree, and I’m not sure one exists without kids obstructing its view. But this photo shows a table laden with cookies, where sprinkles were now a thing and new shapes of horses, chickens, and Santas were added. I distinctly remember a rabbit and Scotty dog, but I don’t see any here.

Arlington, Texas

Sadly, my mom no longer remembers the cookie tree or Alaska, because a misdiagnosis robbed her of memories. But family, friends, and neighbors remember. And our lives are richer for having been surrounded by her warmth, kindness, and whimsy.

And for the record, years later I tried duplicating those cookies. Although delicious, they were missing the dash of magic only my mother could bring.


Personal Essays

Fiddle Lessons

I was ten when I told my parents I wanted to learn to play the violin. The notion came to me after my grandfather died, leaving my mother two memorable artifacts upon his death—a collapsible top-hat and his childhood violin.

My mother rarely talked of her father—silver and gold engineer, widower at forty-nine, remarried, retired to Las Vegas. What I remember most was that he drank a lot and his wife exhibited coldness whenever we visited. Now that I think about it, who wouldn’t be upset with four rowdy children clinging to the brand-new fence and playing a game where the pristine lawn represented hot lava?

According to my mother, her father had his heart set on a boy. But being a girl wasn’t her worst offense. He was greatly embarrassed by her lack of “girlishness.” What did he expect after raising her in mining camps?

When my mother turned seventeen, he told her she needed to find a vocation, because she was neither pretty nor appealing enough to attract a husband. Maybe that’s why she transformed Grandpa’s 1917 West Point uniform into a child’s suit when my brother was five.

Sweet picture of my brother and dad.

The only time my mother softened toward her father’s memory was while talking about his violin. Evidently, his side of the family boasted a few classically-trained musicians, and even with strings missing, he could play a recognizable tune on the fiddle. She admired him in those moments, as if music could somehow transcend years of hurt.

On the left, my grandfather’s stringless fiddle.

When I was ten, learning violin would’ve been cost and time prohibitive for my parents, because the lessons weren’t within the school’s free curriculum and were offsite. And, to be honest, I probably would’ve hated being inside while my friends played hide-and-seek and whiffle ball, and tromped in the woods behind our house. But I never lost interest.

Having heard the story a few times, my husband bought me a violin. Fortunately, he also bought me lessons. My music teacher, and now dear friend Sarah, worried I’d struggle as an adult student, and she didn’t want to get my hopes too high. We started with the Suzuki Method, and I plugged along as best I could. But then she realized the songs I leaned the quickest were ones I recognized from childhood, so she changed books and switched to fiddle tunes. I even participated in a recital, alongside grade-schoolers. I was so nervous, my bow bounced the whole time, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Now I’m learning to jam, using open strings. Some of my writer friends are talented musicians, and they don’t seem to mind if I miss a chord or two. And, I even busked once with a seasoned performer. What a thrilling experience that was!

Breakfast concert with poet Gary Lilley at Port Townsend Writers’ Conference

I guess it just goes to show. Even if a door is locked when you’re young, doesn’t mean you can’t find its key later in life.

Personal Essays

Charisse the Cat

My younger sister volunteers at the Euless Animal Shelter. Several times a week, she spends a few hours holding, petting, and playing with cats. Often, she and her husband foster kittens and cats in their home, offering specialized care.

When an animal is ready for adoption, my sister takes beautiful pictures and writes loving descriptions, based on what she’s learned about their unique personalities. Then she posts the information to the shelter’s website.

When I’m in Texas, which is usually every six weeks, I sometimes visit the shelter with my sister. I can’t think of anything more heartwarming than the sound of a purring cat, especially from one who was terrified upon arrival.

For my birthday, my sister named one of the cats after me. And, thankfully, Charisse was adopted soon after. I wasn’t in town to meet her, but my wish for my namesake is for her to enjoy a long, healthy, and happy life.

Best birthday present ever!