Radio — Sylvan Esso

We grew up with Dad going off to work early in the morning to what was known to us as “The Shop.” The front of the building had a big, hand-painted sign over the doors that said the words “Green River Machine Shop” painted alongside the arial image of a winding, pale green river. The Shop was always loud, full of sound—the ker-thunk of the machines running parts, the sizzling sound of people welding gates, and the twang of the music from the local radio station, cranked full-volume on a small radio somewhere in the back. 

At the shop we could only do certain things. Our Grandpa Bill taught us how to use a push broom and instructed us to sort nuts, bolts, and various other hunks of metal. Our parents had a small business that sold farm gates and made gate hardware. Of the many, many things we learned from our family as children, we quickly learned how to properly answer the telephone and take down a message, sometimes even an order. Mom taught us how to answer the phone, Dad told us to make sure we got a name and added the date and time. 

I remember when my Grandmother did the payroll; I rode with her to the bank to get the cash money for each employee’s paycheck. When we returned, we would place each check in an envelope with a name on it, paperclip the bills together with a pay stub, drop it in the envelope and make sure the amount, including the coins, was correct. Billie had a big bag to carry the bank stuff in and, back in her office, a long ledger in which to record all the information. In her bottom desk drawer there were a whole bunch of candy bars that she would give me when the other kids sent me after a treat. I think Billie liked that I was always too honest, “They sent me for candy bars again!”

Our whole family always attended a holiday party at The Shop, before Christmas, where our parents gave out envelopes with a Christmas bonus and a fruit basket that usually had some fresh fruit, nuts, and a ham. I remember going with Dad to pick the boxes up at the local supermarket and asking so many questions… Why did they have more boxes than they had employees? Why is it called a fruit basket if there’s a ham in it and there’s no basket? For the Christmas dinner at the shop, we usually had a pot of soup beans and cornbread and one (or more) of the ladies who worked there would usually have some kind of candy, cookies, or fudge. Billie always brought or sent a container of Christmas cookies that were her signature throughout the holiday season. Some of the employees always gave us kids a little gift of some sort, and I always remember how special that made me feel.  The Shop was always pretty quiet then, the noises of the machines and welders stopped for a long lunch break, replaced by the noises of a community meal and a couple of stove fires roaring in the background. 

I didn’t know it then but these were all the people who showed me what it could be like at a workplace. At a home. In a community. They showed me what it takes to be a good and decent human. Being polite, kind, and caring toward our fellow humans—it’s so simple. Give more than you take, show people that you value them, and do the right thing. It takes empathy and kindness to make it through life without leaving others damaged in your wake. It takes effort to turn the other cheek. It costs nothing to lend a helping hand, say a kind word, or share a laugh with those who are around you. In your home, at your workplace, and in your community, you can make that little bit of difference to one more starfish. Learning someone’s name, shaking their hand, and teaching them how to do something new is only the beginning…over time you learn to motivate, encourage and care for them as fellow human beings. That was the lesson. I didn’t know that I was learning it. And I suppose there is a cost, if you don’t mind paying it, for not doing what you think you should be doing, not bothering with what you know you ought to do, not pursuing what you wish you could do, not doing what you hope other people would do—and that cost is your own humanity, one little bit at a time. 

When I moved back to my home town a couple of years ago my Grandmother Billie said to me, “Who says you can never go home!?!” And at the time I had just chuckled and replied, “Well, here I am!” I am not ashamed to say that I didn’t quite know exactly what she meant at the time. I knew it was a quote from something and I was even familiar with the phrase and, in general terms, its meaning. But I felt towards the words the same as I had always felt about them: home is the place where you can always go to feel safe, why couldn’t you go back there? Why wouldn’t you? Now that both she and some time have passed, I realize that not everyone can go home. Not everyone wants to go home. Not everyone knows how to go home—even if home is just a comfortable feeling of belonging. But you can learn to be home for those who need safe harbor, and you can teach them how to create it for themselves and others.

For those of you in the know, you may already be privy to the information, but this year our Dad has decided to retire. He is selling The Shop property and its remaining contents. After about a year of closing down and cleaning the business property, we are rapidly approaching the auction date. We were discussing such matters with Dad this morning as I was writing this. I meant to share a few nostalgic words as I posted the link to the auction website and it lead me back here. Full circle, once again. In cycles, in circles.

It’s been a wild ride for me. I can’t imagine what coasting into the station must feel like for Dad now. This year I learned how to weld and work metal a little, on the remaining machines at The Shop—and with the help of my sister Sarah and our coworker Tazz. Together, the three of us cleaned up The Shop, the outside property, and the office. Over the course of the year we have heard numerous stories about hauling gates, making sales, meeting people, going to new places and having interesting experiences—Sarah and I have told Dad several times that he should write a book (or several books!) about all of his adventures in business and life. I will keep encouraging him to do so. In the meantime, if you get a chance, ask him to tell you something that you don’t know. 

The office building is so empty that every sound echoes inside it. The paint pattern that runs along the lower half of the walls was designed and painted by yours truly, my name emblazoned in the same red paint in the hallway instead of a final stretch of the pattern. There wasn’t a place in the shop or office that I had been as a child, a teen, or an adult that I didn’t write my name somewhere. Beth was here. When we went to box up the last of the photos on Mom’s desk at the office, there’s one picure that sits on her desk facing his and it’s a picture of me and Sarah, as toddlers, and Dad at our house, in the corner where they had put the home office at first. It’s a candid snapshot; Sarah is standing in the desk chair behind Dad, preparing to scale him and I am sitting on his shoulders, one foot not quite all the way over his other shoulder when Mom had come in to snap the picture. And there the memory floods back for me, a picture to tug it from the recesses of my brain. The picture is in one of those clear acrylic frames that Billie so loved. Dad is sitting at the desk with notepad, pen and phone, his face turned towards Mom at the last second, as he was really concentrating on getting his work done and we were working hard to prevent him from doing any more work! I remember us climbing all over him, a game where he peeled one kid off his back about the time the other had gotten seated on his shoulders and then Mom pops in to capture the memory forever on film. I haven’t forgotten, Mom!! I still remember. Just like I remember Mom taking me outside to play run-&-go-fetch-it while she was trying to work and all the other kids were at school. Just like I remember trying to type a paper in college and grad school with my little ones climbing up over my shoulders while I tried so hard to just finish this sentence. 

They say you can’t go home again BUT WHO’S GONNA STOP ME!?!? 

Straight Lines -- Silverchair

Every week there's a 1.5 hour chunk of time that I have carved out in the middle of the day, when I talk to a therapist. It's a nice little respite from the rest of the world, even if it's a short time. It's place where I can actually be myself. And the truth is that maybe I haven't done that quite as well since Jonathan died, even though that was my intention. I somehow got super afraid of saying all the things I'd really like to say, do the things that I want to do when I'm telling a story, things that I wouldn't do around anyone else.... I try, but there's always a part of me that holds back, the voice that says, don't say that shit, don't do that, that sounds absolutely fucking crazy, that will look insane. And I usually say that bit out loud to the therapist, and because I know how it sounds, and there are like notes....meh. Whatever. 

I'm not the only one that misses Jonathan.

It seems as though everyone that I meet that knows Jonathan loves and misses him too. I struggled with that sentence for a second as I wrote and I thought should it be "loved?" but then I realized that the body is past tense, the love is still present, that's why it hurts so much. The other day I said that I had never really processed his death...

So I'll say something that I guess I have needed to say for a long time:

What the fuck, man?

Now we gotta do this shit without the pleasure of your insanely loving, always entertaining, and genuinely authentic company? That's a dick move. Like the worst. It's like getting up in the middle of a game of cards against humanity when you know you were dealt the best fuckin hand IN THE ENTIRE GODDAMN UNIVERSE. 

I don't think I had a conversation with Jonathan in which I didn't laugh, no matter the topic or the initial mood. Hanging out with my family is similar to going to a comedy club, but instead of it being stand-up, it's conversational style. Wait, I think I've just described a podcast--which we always say we're gonna do, BUT WE NEVER DO. And clearly, some of us deal with trauma and adversity by developing a particularly twisted and entertaining sense of humor over the course of our lives, Jonathan being no exception over the course of his, only he happened to just be better at it than everyone else. Effortlessly funny in all situations, that was Jonathan.

I miss you, man. It's real fucked up that you just died like that and things will never ever be the same without you.

I honestly don't know how to describe it. I guess the closest thing is that I miss one of the people I was closest to that I knew absolutely, without fail, I could say the most left-field crazy fucked up esoteric shit to and at the same time have a serious and fun conversation about it, without being judged for how fucking crazy it sounded. Like wormholes, time travel, entropy, zombies, video games, books, conundrums, music, weird words, anything and everything. And also real shit. Shit that was happening in the world and how awful is to feel things so deeply.

Salt in an open wound. As I write and think about him, the tears just flow. I don't want to feel like this, because I hate feeling sad, but I know it will be ok. I know the end of this life will come, just as everyone's does, and, until then...well, from now on, without Jonathan it's just not gonna be as fun, but I keep trying to do my best to make it entertaining anyway. Otherwise, what's the point?

MF - AWOLNATION

I stole something once. I was really little. Small enough to not yet understand the concept of money. It was a pack of bubbalicious bubble gum. We were in the check out line at the grocery store and I saw it, wanted it and took it. When we got to the car and I was chewing a piece, Mom noticed and asked me where I had gotten the gum. I told her. After explaining that you had to to pay for the things that you wanted or needed at the grocery store, or any store, she made me go back inside, pay for the gum and apologize for taking it. Mom was really unhappy about the whole ordeal, as was I, and I never stole anything from the store ever again. It was a truly mortifying experience.

I hadn't realized that I had done something wrong until she told me. Once I was made aware of the wrong I had done, and took the necessary steps to correct it, I never made that mistake again. When we got home we had a little more of an in depth discussion about money, what it meant to make money (how it's earned through working a job) and exchanging money for goods and services. I could understand concepts very well and I felt terrible about having stolen something. It still makes me feel bad to this day. It's a lesson that I have never forgotten.

Flash forward to the girl scouts meeting my kindergarten year of elementary school where we received a small goody bag with a few Christmas-themed items that included some erasers and a Rudolph the red nose reindeer chap stick. I was thrilled to have the chap stick and took it with me to school and placed it in my cubby with all my other belongings. When it was time that we could go to our cubbies, my chap stick was gone and I observed another girl using it. I will never forget. Her name was Heather. So I told the teacher and she asked me how I knew that it was mine and not, in fact, her chap stick. So I explained that I had received it at girl scouts, that it was unique, a Rudolph chap stick, and that I knew it was mine because it was in my cubby in the morning but was gone later and I saw her using it. So the teacher gets down on my level and tells me, "Honey, you don't want it back." I had insisted that I wanted it back. It was mine. Not hers. I knew she took it. The teacher knew she took it. Why couldn't I have it back? And then the teacher had to explain to me that this other little girl perhaps wasn't lucky enough to get to go to girl scouts and receive a special chap stick and that I ought to just let her have it. I, however, was adamant. I had already learned my lesson about stealing. I wasn't supposed to take things that weren't mine. How could she just take it and keep it? Didn't she know stealing was wrong? Why was she allowed to steal it and then, when caught red handed, get to keep it? What kind of message was this sending to her if she just gets to keep something that wasn't hers? I was furious. I wanted it back. That was when my teacher told me that the girl had already used it and that now it had her germs on it and that if I got it back I would have her germs. And couldn't my mother just buy me a new chap stick after school? I related all this to my mother as soon as school was over and she did, in fact, take me to get a new chap stick. It was cherry flavored (not peppermint) and had chap stick written on it in black and white instead of having a picture of Rudolph with a big red nose. It wasn't the same. This kid took what was mine and then just got to keep it. And I had to sit by and just let her.

That memory is seared into my brain.

I don't really understand why I am the way that I am. I remember things. Memories are like movies in my head that play on repeat if I let them. Memorizing things burns a crystal clear image of whatever it is inside my head like a photograph. It took me a really long time, years after Mom died, but I finally realize that I cannot control other people. The only thing that I can control in this world is my reaction to any given situation. I can't force other people to do the right thing.

I consistently remind myself that all that matters is that I am staying the course. I can sleep at night. I try not to lie. I don't steal. I try not to do anything that I was taught is wrong. I cuss. I say things that hurt people's feelings sometimes, most of the time I don't realize that it might be hurtful until someone else points it out. I feel bad about the things that I have done that I know were wrong or hurtful to others. I hold myself accountable. If nothing else, the memory of my Mother and all that she taught me reminds me to do the right thing.

But what about everyone else????

Chakra Daemon -- Foreign Air

I don't know how to do this anymore. I don't know how to go about living my life like everyone else. People always say that I should let things go, don't let things get to me, stop caring so much. I don't know how to do that. I wish that I did. I wish I lived in a world where it was okay to care too much. Everyone seems content to go on with life even if it's not entirely what they want it to be, accepting this palpable unhappiness settling into their souls. I don't want to live like that. I don't want to accept the status quo.

I haven't entirely processed everything that's happened in the last year. I'm sad. I miss Jonathan and I'm still fucking sad about it.

I don't know what I was thinking this time last year. I guess I just wasn't. I wasn't considerate of his feelings like I should have been...after he died and the funeral was over and Halloween came and went, I flew to Nevada and had an adventure with someone who pretended to love me. Why? Why did I do that?

Jonathan came to me and was very upset. I was in the master bedroom at Dad's house, and he hugged me and cried and I didn't know what to say or do. The last time I saw him in person before he died he was upset. He wasn't mad at me, he made that much clear. I wasn't trying to do anything to hurt him. I was just trying to have a happily ever after. I didn't think about how alone he was. I didn't think about how much I was hurting other people in my life by doing the things that I did. I guess I never really do.

So here it is. My confession of guilt. I feel terrible that I neglected my relationship with him, that I didn't try harder to comfort him, to reach out and tell him that he was loved. I feel terrible for not seeing all his tweets to me, that I didn't call him more often, that I didn't take more time to tell him how much he meant to me. I feel bad that he was alone.

People deal with loss differently. I guess I don't deal with it very well at all. I avoid. I withdraw. I isolate myself from others, hoping to avoid the pain of having to talk about the things that upset me.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I have lost sight of my purpose in this world. I've lost the desire to talk to anyone. I have lost so much already and I am afraid I'm losing myself again. I'm trying to find my way back to being myself without worrying about what everyone else thinks. And all the while I struggle to get through each day raising these kids as best I can. At least they're great kids. At least I can be here with them to teach them, love them and encourage them to become good people.

Free to Breathe -- Cold War Kids

At the funeral service they asked if any family members or friends wanted to say anything.

I couldn't force myself to do it.

Because all I wanted to do was go up to the podium and scream that my brother is dead.

My brother is dead.

It didn't feel real. It doesn't seem real even now.

Jonathan is dead. Life is changed forever. I have lost a sibling and there's a hole in my heart again.

Losing Mom was hard. But we were kinda prepared for it to happen. We were aware of the possibility that it could happen. We still weren't ready.

But this? This I dont understand. This was unepexected. I wasn't prepared. I didn't write a eulogy.

We loved our brother Jonathan.

I remember the first time he ever sat down with our family to eat dinner. Dad had fried pork tenderloin, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. We all sat down together to talk about our day and eat. And Jonathan thought the food was so delicious that he actually made little "mmmm" noises after every bite until Sarah piped up and said, "Do you know what you're doing?" And we all had a good laugh about it.

This time last year I was giving a toast at my best friend's wedding. I had struggled for a long time to come up with the right words and finally just spoke from the heart... We all have families that we are born into. But some of us are lucky enough to find people during our lives that become our family. And those families we create for ourselves are just as important as the families we're born into because they are actively choosing to participate in your life. Not because they have to but, rather, simply because they want to be part of your life.

Amy, Sarah, Daniel and I will forever feel this loss. Our children will as well. It's tough to understand why he is gone so young. I will always remember all the years we had together; all the family birthdays, holidays, and various events over the years--from marching band to living together briefly as adults. All of these experiences are so sacred to me because that's all that's left. I have some pictures but I realized the other day that more often than not, when we were together, we weren't really on our phones taking pictures. We were always more interested in talking to each other for hours on end than being on our phones.

Even now these few words are inadequate to express how I feel. There are no words that can adequately display his big booming laugh when he thought something was really funny. Or the crazy way his hair stood up in the morning when he woke up. Or how it felt to know that someone in the world really did understand you on a level that few people ever could. How can you begin to describe someone's life and how much they meant to you when you still can't quite acccept that they're really gone?

Doesn't Remind Me -- Audioslave

You know that sick feeling inside--the "sinking in the pit of your stomach" one? It's like that.

It's the same feeling you get when your parents go out and drop you off at your Grandparent's house. Your child mind struggles to understand how they can go out and have fun without you. A stirring of unease, wondering if they'll come back. Something is different from normal procedure. The dining table where you've had a thousand dinners with your parents and grandparents feels empty without those two extra place settings. Popcorn in wooden bowls and cute little monkey bed time slippers. It gets a little easier with each passing moment because you know that you're one minute closer to Mom and Dad coming back to pick you up. Despite that sinking feeling that tugs at you when you're reminded, you know you'll be all right.

"It only hurts when you think about it," My Grandpa Bill said, sharing his feelings about the passing of his own mother.

I have used these words to comfort myself for years. 

How can I not think about it?

We make new routines and go on living without the people that we miss. Missing them becomes part of the routine. Being without them becomes a part of life. The terrible sinking feeling deep down inside fades a little with the acceptance. I reflect. I survived all the other losses. I know that grief can consume me. It can sneak up on me when I think everything is going so well and try to drag me back under. But I've come too far to let that happen.

Right now Grandpa Bill is in the hospital and everything I felt when Mom died has come crashing back. The diagnosis given before all the test results come in is multiple myeloma. Dad and Billie told me everything the doctors have said so that I can send a report to the rest of the family. A yawning, gaping hole opened inside me again. It is the same voice telling me, taunting me as I clutched my lipstick kiss in my hand on my very first day of school--that my Mother is never coming back. Now it's telling me that everyone I've ever known and loved is going to die. And I will have to watch it happen until it's my turn. 

Many hours and memories later and here we are, again, bracing for the storm. I don't know why I got comfortable--so comfortable in this happiness I've created. I thought I was about to close a book when another chapter appeared! The sinking, sick, something's-not-quite-right feeling hasn't left me since I began to consider the possibility of losing my Grandpa. It eases a little when I remember that it is our resistance to change that causes our distress.

It is our attachment that causes our suffering. 

I railed against these words when I first began to study mindfulness. It was a long time before the words came to mean something to me. Even now, I still have moments in which I am not comforted by them. 

I go Ice Princess numb when overwhelmed by stressful and emotional situations. I realize that I still do it and tell myself that it's okay to feel the feelings. But it doesn't happen just because I tell myself to feel it. I let it all come rushing out when I write, though.