Indecipherable

When I sit down to write, whether it be an article for a newspaper, magazine or website or even a short story or poem for an anthology, I really never know what is going to find its way onto the page. Sometimes, I even surprise myself. Most times, it is crap and I end up deleting the whole thing. Other times, it strikes me as halfway decent and I know after making harsh cuts and editing that it will be a worthwhile piece that has merit and I should be proud if other people read it. 

I have also noticed that as of late, a lot of what I write, ends up being just for myself or maybe one other person. A memory of something I have been trying to process. A poem written about a day I wish I could experience again for the first time. A letter written to a friend that is meant to bring comfort and encouragement. And even an apology that should have been sent a long time ago if I hadn't been so stubborn. Finding that it happens in waves, a lot of this compulsive writing tends to pour out of me. Fast and furious and at all hours of the day. The notes app on my phone advised me that it was near full. I used three notebooks in the last three months. When notes are made in the dead of night, I write down what I think I want to say. And then by morning, my chicken scratches end up being lone words or short phrases with an indecipherable word here and there. 

The Day Luke Died

I realized days later that I was talking about Luke Perry. This story is still formulating itself in my mind as the first draft was a weird emotional tale of a man I never had the pleasure of meeting. 

M.L.

Initials without any additional information can be a dangerous thing. It took me a week to flesh this story out. Then realized that I wasn't going to ever even post it on my blog.  I shared the story with my friend Ali and she to this day has consistently teased me about it.  Proof that this story should never be shared with the masses. 

#blessed

My husband hates hashtags and he hates #blessed the most.  Not only is it overused, the meaning has been lost because of the constant use on social media platforms as a way of somehow justifying a humble brag. I wrote a short quip about obnoxious hashtags and a first year magazine used the story as a sub-story about the American Housewife and the curse of obscurity. Um. That is not what I was hoping for.

Alarm Connection

When I was young, my dad worked for 3M Alarm Corp. He would do these weird things like connect wires downstairs that would then light up something upstairs. He even figured out a way to rig the loudest alarm I have ever heard in our home. Keep in mind, we lived in the country, often left our doors unlocked and when it was really hot in the summer, we would leave the front door open with just the small latch lock on the screen door. Was the alarm necessary? No. But it was my dad's love of all things science and technology and his ability to create and fix most things on full display. When I left the house, I used to touch the wall where the alarm panel was located in the front entryway. I missed my dad after he left and moved out of state. That was my one connection to him.

Find out the names of the games-

This was a note to ask my sister about the names of the games that we had on the basement shelves when we were young. There was one with all these light and dark brown wooden beads. I don't remember if there was a board or cups that went with the game, but I remember enjoying the game. I also remember a long wooden plank with two metal rods at a slight angle that could be moved side to side.  A large metal ball rolled down the middle of the metal bars and the goal was to drop it in one of the holes below where the points totals were written. I don't remember if this was an actual game or if it was a game our dad made. A lot of my fond childhood memories revolve around playing games as a family.

Find the letters-

I found them. They were in my mom's cedar chest which is located in my bedroom. But the letters weren't where I thought they were and they didn't contain information that I needed. They made me more sad than anything else. I felt bad for my great grandmother after reading them. I did some digging online and am grateful for some history sleuths who quickly joined in my information quest to find the census records for St. Paul. But the letters still break my heart a bit. I am in the process of trying to figure out how to tell the story as it is not a personal story, but a family one that it isn't pretty or fun to share with others. But it is true and real and speaks volumes about the long lineage of triumphant women who knew about dignity, perseverance and the love of children. I will tell this story in its entirety someday.

Read all the books

About 3 weeks before my mom passed away, her speech slowed and she became more deliberate about what she wanted to talk about. She slept most of the time, wasn't really ambulatory and couldn't read or understand what was happening on the TV. One afternoon after work, I drove to see her, and arrived as she was sleeping. Her TV  was on full blast. I hit the mute button, used her bathroom and turned on some music. When I reached to touch her hand she opened her eyes and smiled.

"Ah, Kelli. I hoped to see you today. Take those books on the end table and read them. I really liked them and I think you will too." I held her hand as she drifted off. 

I read the four books. And I know exactly why it was important to her that I read those four books.  Someday I will share the truths that I found on those pages with anyone who cares to read about it. Because those truths weren't just stories or fanciful tales. They were my mom's way telling me what she needed me to know before her passing.

Zipper bags and stamps

My mom had a red zipper bag that was filled with rubber stamps and stamp pads. She rarely used them but enjoyed having them and liked to place one strategically on the back of an envelope or the bottom of a letter.  When she passed, I gave the stamps and ink to Lily. She loved having them. After using all the ink and the inexpensive stamps dried up, we disposed of them, but not until they were also well loved by Lily. Now Lily uses that red zipper bag as a large travel bathroom bag.  Every time I see her take it out from underneath her sink, I smile and think of my mom and her favorite red zipper bag.

I will always continue writing down odd duck statements that have little to no meaning when later discovered in a notebook on top the side table or in one of my many notes apps.  But I also have learned to date them, occasionally draw a picture next to them and even leave more information for future use.  The one that I finished writing tonight was a poem called No Longer Welcome. It surveys the pain of a declined text and a deletion of a phone number. My heart hurt quite a bit when it happened. But after writing about it, not only did my heart feel a bit more mended, I was able to move on from a 30 relationship and know that it will all be fine in the end. Because there will always be something new and important that nudges at me until I write it down.

Mom's Luggage

From a very young age, my sister Angela and I were regaled with stories from our mom about her travels. And when I say travels, I mean one European tour working with the Billy Graham Crusades through all of Europe and two trips to Hawaii in the mid to late 60s. My mother never traveled much as an adult, but she enjoyed every moment of it when she did. She spoke of trips to New York and the mountains with her parents when she was young and then of trips to Arizona as an adult to visit and stay with an old boss (some car mogul) with my dad after she was married. She also enjoyed trips to California for the Rose Bowl Parade and to New York for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with the high school band when my sister and I were teens. 

We were always challenged when it came to finances. Money was used for mortgage payments, gas, insurance, food and utilities. Money was always in short supply when it came to clothes and any extra spending or even travel. But my mom always went out of her way to make sure that we applied for grants for summer camp and that we participated in every fundraiser possible to make sure that travel was possible when it came to band trips for my sister and missions trips for myself. 

When my mom packed, even if it was for an overnight or two up north, she had it down to a science. She knew exactly what would be needed, what to anticipate and what to pack for the just in case moments that were always evident when it came to kids. Falling in mud and needing an extra set of clothes, or an extra sweatshirt and jeans even when the weather forecaster said it would be 80F degrees. She had this amazing ability to plan, pack and then repack before heading home.  

I always admired her small zippered bags that she still had from when she was a teenager and young adult. But what I enjoyed most, was her beautiful luggage. She had two suitcases and a carry-on bag that she had purchased when she worked at a hospital in downtown St. Paul and was planning on traveling. She told my sister and I that she had to save up to afford the three piece set from the department store, but knew that she was making a wise purchase. She also felt that the unique pattern encouraged future travel. 

Our mom took very good care of her three piece set. Before the days of wheeled suitcases, she said she loved carrying her matching set through an airport, or unloading it from the trunk of a car. She felt like a real adult when she carried them for the first few years. Reflecting, she knew that this luggage could quite possibly last her the rest of her life.  

Unfortunately, a flood of water seeping in the basement of her old rambler home ruined the luggage set and they had to be thrown in the trash. She was sorry to see them go. (My sister may still have the carry- bag. I will have to check with her.) When our mom traveled for the last time 17 years ago with friends from church on a cruise, she treated herself for only the second time in life to a new set of luggage. This time in her favorite color purple. Two wheeled suitcases with push down handles and a carry on bag. She adored her travel gear and showed them to me numerous times. She also continued to regale me with stories of travel memories. 

When my mom passed away, her purple luggage set came to live at my house. No, it wasn't the original set that she loved with the travel signs and passport information printed all over them, but the purple set was what she used on her last trip. Now, my daughter packs one suitcase with her clothes and the other with her art supplies and books. She uses the carry-on as a bathroom/ toiletry bag. And each time, the purple luggage makes an appearance, I remember my dearly missed mother and the stories she told. 

Today, I came across a beautiful suitcase at a thrift store. Tears flooded my eyes before it even registered what I was looking at. The beautiful pattern of the town names, plane tickets and passport stamps was sitting on a lower shelf, almost out of view. I wiped a few stray tears and leaned down very slowly for a closer look. Not quite the same, but so very similar. I considered purchasing the suitcase, but then realized it possessed a bit of a smell like cigarette smoke and knew it couldn't live at my home. I paused, positioned it on the floor at my feet, smiled and pulled out my cell phone to take a picture.  

This beautiful piece made me smile today. Not only did it make me smile, it lightened my mood and made me miss my mom just a little bit less today. This time of year is challenging for me because of how much I miss my mom. She loved Thanksgiving and Christmas, decorating and cooking, hosting and feasting so very much. Even the sight of this unique piece made today a special day to remember. I shared with Lily a few stories of my mom's travels. I told her about the pictures she turned into slides from her travels and how she shared them with the seniors at the nursing home in Forest Lake. I also told Lily about the suitcase that she carried the slides in as she entertained the residents. My mom would greet each of the residents as she unpacked her treasures, and would say, "Tonight, we are traveling to Hawaii! Pack your bags and grab your sun hats and enjoy!"

Welcomed

I have welcomed these four days off from work over the Thanksgiving holiday. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed and had been working too much during the day and staying up even later at night to complete additional work for other clients. Needing a break, Thanksgiving has provided just that. 

I planned ahead and started cooking Thanksgiving dinner the day before so that our meal, even though it was just for the four of us, wasn't going to keep me in the kitchen all day. We had a lovely meal at around 1 p.m. and we had the dishwasher loaded and the kitchen cleaned up by 2:15 p.m. Josh and Zach carried all of the Christmas decorations bins upstairs from the storage room and we as a family assembled and decorated the tree. I had 12 bins ready to be returned to the storage room that evening, with only 5 left to sort and unpack. 3 to fill with normal house decor that I put away once I put all of the Christmas items out and two that still need to be sorted and purged. Yes, I have 17 bins of just Christmas stuff. What can I say? We love Christmas! 

I loved looking at all of my table and serving items, towels for both the kitchen and bathroom and going through many decorations that have been passed down through our families. Disappointed that a crystal platter had shattered in its box, but then I realized I still have two more that I love. I placed three plastic platters in with the two remaining crystal ones, and found all of my Christmas goblets and place settings were ready to be consolidated. Quickly, I got rid of a few plates and small bowls that I do not use and got rid of a few mugs that just don't hold a cup of coffee the size that I need to be able to function on a daily basis. 

I placed all of the platters, service items and towel bins in the stacks to be sent back downstairs. I actually found myself to be a bit sad. The tears came quickly and there was no hiding them. Christmas won't look the way we are used to this year. Christmas will probably look the same way that Thanksgiving did. Just the four of us. There won't be any need to pull the service for 20 out, the goblets and other stemware. There won't be a need for 5 platters and 10 bowls. Because it will just be the four of us. 

Covid weighs heavy on my heart. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss being able to host large get togethers and feed lots of people at once. I miss celebrating with the people that I love. And it took downsizing and repacking all the Christmas glassware for me to realize it. 

Yes, I like the quiet. Yes, I like being home. Yes, I like not having to run everywhere on holidays when I am already a bit worn out already. But I will still miss hosting in my home. Covid is here for the long haul, this I know. It will take quite some time for a new normal to be established. And that new normal may not include large numbers of people for some time. But in the meantime, I will be more intentional. I will text frequently. I will knock on neighbors' doors and leave plates of cookies and pumpkin and banana bread. I will make more cards than I normally do. Not just Christmas cards, but Thinking of You cards. I Miss Your Beautiful Face cards. I Can't Wait to See You cards.

Many of those cards will also include dinner invitations that will let the recipient know that when we can be together again, I can't wait to set the table with platters and goblets and fold the napkins just like my mom taught me so many years ago. They will be invitations back into my home where we can share a meal, enjoy a beverage and revel in the storytelling we have all missed. 

Until that time occurs, I have made the decision to use all the napkins and towels in the kitchen and the bathroom. I will light all of the great smelling seasonal candles. I will set the table and enjoy the winter berry centerpiece. I will use the beautiful hosting items that have mostly been gifted to me, even if no one other than the four of us are here to enjoy them. Because they are too beautiful and hold too many precious memories of meals shared with the people we love to be boxed and stored for the season. 

Long Overdue

Long Overdue

Kelli J Gavin

My friend returned from overseas last week. She has been gone for over three months. I missed her and continued to pray for her family of 8 as their absence was felt.  I was disappointed when I didn't see her at church yesterday morning. I saw her husband and some of her kids, but entered into a conversation with another friend and was convinced I missed her.  

Today after work, I was racing and entered a very busy Costco with the intent of grabbing my dozen items and heading out the door as soon as possible. Costco was swamped and slow moving.  As I rounded the corner after selecting my greens, squash and a pumpkin pie, I saw her third son by the baked goods. I said hello and asked who he was with. 

He shouted, "My mom!"

And just at the moment, I felt my missed friend's hands on my arm and within a split second, I was enveloped into an amazing heart to heart embrace. You know those kind of hugs. Where your arms hold tight and breathing becomes just a little bit easier. The kind of hug where you weren't really sure what you needed up until that minute, but you find it was that hug was needed all along. 

Oh, how I enjoyed catching up. Sharing our hearts and how we were praying for each other.  To see someone's face to face, mask and all, to hear the words come from their mouth rather than read them from a text or email.  More hugs were exchanged as prayers were said in the middle of Costco today.

In these times of Covid-19, do not forsake relationships. Foster friendships. Love each other and pray for each other. Knowing that some relationships with family and even friends can be strained during this time, find ways to practice forgiveness if need be so that you can continue loving, being encouraging and always kind. And as it was proven today, always stop in Costco, forget your to-do lists and warm your heart with a long overdue hug. 

Thank you, Michelle. Much love to you this evening. 

Fix It

Zach, our 17 year old son with Autism hurt his neck yesterday morning. He has been miserable for two days. Ice and heat, ibuprofen and lots of love and reassurance has been what is getting Zach through this weekend. He seems to be counting down the minutes until Monday when he knows that Josh will take him to the Chiropractor. 

"Mom has to go to work. Dad will take me to see Dr. Reisgraf. He will make me feel better. He will fix it."  Zach has repeated this phrase over and over as if to calm himself and remind him that it is going to be okay. 

Zach rarely speaks about what pain he is experiencing. A few years back, Zach had surgery on both feet to correct a deformity that was present since birth. He was very vocal about his pain and it was so atypical for him, we knew how much it hurt. Painful big toes filled with blood and puss, he was miserable and would limp frequently.  We put off the surgery for so long because we didn't know how we were going to keep him laying down for three days with his feet elevated and in walking boots after that for another week. Both feet were reshaped and the surgery was absolute perfection. Zach did an amazing job with recovery and we felt bad that we waited so long.  

Zach will have a nose bleed in the night and wake up and take care of it himself. He once split his back open on an open dresser drawer and tried to mend the wound himself with Elmer's glue and bandages.  With PICA, he often scratches small wounds until they become big wounds and then additional wound care with tons of ointments and bandages are needed to help prevent infection from setting in.  He ripped his knee open in a fall up a curb and decided to remove the scab while en route to Devil's Tower in Wyoming. He used to lower half of his tee shirt and never said a word to me that he was struggling in the back seat of our vehicle. 

So when Zach can barely turn his head, holds his neck in hand when rising from sitting and groans with anything that requires learning over, we know his pain is excessive.  He also requests lots of hand holds, cuddles closely on the couch and reminds me that tomorrow is Monday. 

I am so pleased that he knows Dr. Reisgraf, trusts him and knows that his hands bring relief even to the worst pain. He has witnessed every member in our family receive care from this doctor and he knows that relief isn't necessarily immediate, but it will eventually happen.  

I think of all the times that I have been in pain, of all the times that I could barely move and relied on the kindness of my husband and children to help me with the simplest of tasks. Recovering from surgeries quite a few times in the last 3 1/2 years, sometimes, I even needed help to get out of bed. I have needed help with dressing and showering, putting my hair in a ponytail, preparing food, help with housework and packing backpacks. And each and every time I have needed help, no one in my family has every shied away from a request.  They are eager to help and kind when they understand someone else's pain. 

And when we are serving Zach during this time that he is experiencing pain, I think of what a privilege it is that he knows he can ask for help. That he can trust that we will help him. Fetching ice packs from the freezer, warming heat packs in the microwave, applying muscle rub to numb the pain if only for a short while. I am thankful that he knows that Josh and I serve him freely expecting nothing in return. We love him and so we consider it an honor, not an obligation, to help him in his time of need. 

These days are long and challenging.  Just keep loving your families. Love them and serve them.  Serve them so well that your example of kindness is then passed on to someone else. Be an example for your children of what it looks like to help others without being asked. That modeled behavior is passed down to them unknowingly and often replicated when they get a chance.  

Into The Woods Is Where It Can Be Found

Into The Woods Is Where It Can Be Found

By: Kelli J Gavin 

For Writers Unite!

As a small child, my mother once told me that she had a secret to share with my sister and I. I loved the idea of a secret being shared and immediately she captivated our attention. She pulled my sister and I near to her on the bottom stair of our small back porch. 

  "First, I need to disclose that I have never been able to find what I am about to tell you. When your dad and I moved into this home in 1972, Shirley who lives in the backwoods stopped over to greet us. She told me that she was never so lucky to verify it either, but she was also told that there may still be a fairy home in these woods. She and I walked these woods together and I firmly believe from the stories that she shared that it is true. Can you believe it? A fairy!"

  Our eyes as big as saucers, she had our full attention. A real fair house could be in the woods behind our home but she and Shirley had never been able to find it? Even my young mind knew how outlandish the story sounded. Fairies were only found in books and in movies. I, at 6 or 7 at the time, knew better. I knew about Santa and the Easter Bunny and even The Tooth Fairy. My mother was a woman of her word. Why was she telling me a story about a fairy home if fairies weren't real? 

  "Mom, I think you are telling us a story. You are just teasing us." I spouted.

  "Kelli, what I say is true. I have shared the story with you about the fact that it is said a fairy home can be found in the woods behind our home. It is up to you whether or not you believe it to be true. It is also up to you to decide whether or not you are going to search for it."

  Angela, my older sister smiled as my mom stood up and opened the backdoor to enter our home. 

  "It isn't real. Just a fun story." Angela then stood quickly and ran off to play. 

  Sitting for a few more moments, I really contemplated what our mom had shared. I knew that my sister didn't believe it was true, but what if it was? Our dad was usually the joker, not our mom. So why would she share a story that wasn't true? 

  I decided right there and then I wouldn't say another word about it to my sister or to my mom, but I would keep my eyes peeled just in case I could find the fairy home. 

  I searched deep in the woods that summer. I checked under downed trees, and I attempted to move large bows that had fallen to the ground from the canopy above. I occasionally even brought a blanket so that I could sit on the forest floor and see things down below where only my feet would tread. I didn't see a fairy house, but I was thankful for the blanket. I avoided a mean patch of poison ivy and a few hungry giant ants. 

  Searching for the fairy house became something I would do almost daily, whenever I had free time and could explore. Really never giving up the idea, I may have even kept my eyes open even into my teens years. My rational mind knew that it wasn't possible, but it would make for the most fantastic story to tell others if for some reason I really did find it. 

  When I turned 16, my mom gave me the most beautifully illustrated book all about fairies. Originally written in the early 1900's, it was all about a young girl who was convinced that fairies existed and she documented her findings. 

  "Kelli, I know you are far too old to believe in fairies and the fairy home that I told you about when you were little, but I thought you would appreciate this book that I also enjoyed when I was young. I also wonder if it won't inspire you to write a few more stories about the fairies that we have been told live behind our home."

  Learning that afternoon that my mom had shared the story with me to inspire me while writing and to fire up my imagination, I appreciated her efforts even more. My mom shared something special with me that she also adored. A story, a book and the desire to never stop searching for the truth.

  I never did find a fairy home, but I continued to write stories, search for truth when need be and to always share the joy and fascination of what could possibly exist in the woods behind our home with my children now. My 14 year old daughter and 17 year old son no longer believe in such things, but my heart beams when my daughter will pull my mother's beloved fairy book from the shelf. She will sit on the end of the couch with the light shining in from the afternoon sun and marvel at the illustrations. She will smile at me when I catch her eye. The best stories are the stories that are passed from generation to the next. And I am sure my daughter will someday share the book with her children and the story of the fairy home behind their grandma's childhood home. 

Best Story Possible

 I felt utterly discouraged. I wrote a well written 5,000 word short story, it hooked the reader from the start and was different from anything I had written prior. I had never written a story of such length in a day before, and loved that the idea came to me so quickly. I edited it the next day and sent it in. Completed the entire project within 48 hours. 

  And a few days later, a decline email was sent. A thank you, but no thanks. I began to second guess myself. Was most of my writing crap and I had somewhere along the line developed an inflated sense of self and believed that I could write, when really the opposite was true? Why was I continuing to put my work out there and to see it turned down, time and time again?

  I quickly realized that the doubt and questioning phase had begun. Doubt is something that I am not a stranger to. I have experienced it before. When I quit a job I loved and started a new company. When I began consulting on a part-time basis and no longer had any clout with any financial organization. Or when I began writing. So many times I had experienced doubt. From the time when I was young, until that very moment. But why?

  I began to realize that doubt seemed to creep in, to become comfortable and expected whenever a change was made or when I didn't get what I desired. When I had to work very hard at something to accomplish a goal or do something I felt completely ill-suited for. Doubt freely roamed when I would be told No. 

  I also realized that the No is what disabled me from moving forward. The No wounded me and made me feel less than, not good enough.

 Since when had I let the words of others influence me to the point of feeling immobilized? 

 When did I start believing that I shouldn't try again?

  But mostly, why did I think that I should always get what I want?

  A life of privilege influences our thoughts about ourselves and about the life that is yet to come. At least it has been the case in my life. Fast and furious affirmative responses often conditioned me to believe that everything I wrote was golden. 

  I am working on my third book right now. Originally 95k words, it was a collection of non-fiction short stories. After three self edits and correcting as much as I could, I had a friend read it. I asked for feedback. I wanted to know what they thought as a reader, not as a friend. 

  I was asked if when I started writing the book, did I believe that the longer it was, the better? I was asked if I had always wanted it to be so long? The biggest issue was length. It was too long. The reader stated that there were so many short stories that needed to be removed because it seemed that they did nothing. As if they were added only to increase the length of the book. I was offended but only until I read through my book a fourth time. That fourth time, all of the fluff, the excess, the unnecessary stood out to me. It was very apparent that the reader was right and I needed to start working again. 

  I cut over 20k words. So much excess.Once the edits had been made, I felt stripped. Exposed. The bare bones of the true short stories of my life were the only story I was meant to tell from the beginning. 

  What did this teach me? It taught me to be tough, to heed great advice and to make changes even when I didn't believe that changes were necessary. That a No, this doesn't work, but have you considered this?- was exactly what I needed to take the next step forward. 

  I have continued to write and edit every day since. And I will continue doing so. I should be actively listening to the constructive criticism of those that know me, my heart and my desire to write well. Also, I have come to accept that I won't always hear Yes. That I shouldn't want every response to ever be a Yes. When a No inevitably comes, I need to remember situations such as this and understand that a No provides the desire to read, re-read, and edit some more. It helps me to continue writing until each story is actually complete. The best story possible is the one I always want to present.