Wanderlust and the Source

Bedtime is sacred in our house. Not because it’s the routine shutting off all the lights and closing our eyes to sleep. Annie and I value it because these are the precious few minutes we can chat and connect free of interruptions from kids who don’t appreciate their bedtime as much as we do.

In these final waking hours of our day we share the best and worst parts of everything happening before we got home. We air the stresses we cannot share with anyone else. We comfort each other as lovers and encourage each other as teammates. We create to-do lists and bucket lists. We set reminders on our phones so we might recall those things our ADHD is prone to forget. We mutually doom scroll social media side by side, occasionally holding our phone to the side with instructions, “Hey check this out.” We ponder the benefits and challenges of various ideas. We talk religion, sex, and politics. We discuss plans for both the immediate and distant future. And, most importantly, we dream together.

This is the key ingredient for the magic binding us together. When we think of what life will be like five years ahead or fifty years from now, we envision our hypothetical future lives as a cohesive unit. These are shared aspirations, not individual exploits. We have had this ingrained in our relationship as long as we’ve known each other. On our second date, we talked about places we’ve always longed to visit. She said she wanted to go to Scotland to see her ancestral homelands. Two of my bucket list destinations (Paisley Abbey and Loch Ness) happen to be in Scotland. We laughed and smiled at the idea of going there together and fulfilling our dreams at the same time.

Annie and I both have an insatiable wanderlust. We feel the tug of the journey on our hearts. Places exotic to historic, from pristine wilderness to ancient ruins, waterfalls and temples, castles and farmers markets. We want nothing more for our lives to go, and see, and do. We yearn to wander foreign lands and disappear for a while.

Real, actual, legitimate picture of us.

Earlier this week, I told my therapist how I believe the best education we can receive is found outside our own culture. As much as I would enjoy a trip to Disneyland to hang out at Galaxy’s Edge, I would rather visit the original Tatooine Star Wars set in Tunisia. Given the choice between a week at Universal Studios or traveling to India during Holi, I would choose the later. Annie would do the same. The selection of culture over capitalism is an easy one.

Unfortunately, Annie and I grew up believing travel was for other people. Both our families were poor and the expense of overseas excursions was too daunting - an unobtainable wish left to wither on the vines of our dying hopes. This wanderlust ached in our bones and called our spirits yet we felt confined to weekend roadtrips and local attractions. We wanted to see the world but doubted we would ever be globetrotters.

All it takes is one little break to shatter the exoskeleton of false beliefs. Two and a half years ago, a new job sent me to Tampa Bay for three weeks of training. Annie and our two youngest girls flew out to visit a weekend while I was there so we could partake in a family Florida adventure. It was the nudge we needed to shed the idea we weren’t meant to travel. How could we hold on to such a concept while doing the thing we thought we’d never be able to do. A few months later we went to Waikiki to celebrate birthdays of mine and Steven’s. Then a month later we were on a cruise boat to Alaska for our belated honeymoon. Since then we’ve made a return trip to Hawaii along with little jaunts to Cheyenne, Boise, Portland, Cranbrook BC, and multiple trips to Tacoma/Seattle/Everett.

We’re not ready to quit. Between now and the end of the year, our feet will tread ground in Mexico, Costa Rica, and Columbia adding three stamps to our passports. Not long after, I’ll be headed to Phoenix with one of my best friends for a DJ gig. Next year, Annie and I have plans to take the family yurt camping for a week and we’ve already booked a vacation to the Bahamas.

Over the last few years, we’ve suddenly began living a live we never imagined would be possible for either of us. We’re finally able to sate that insatiable wanderlust. Our journey begun, we’re only getting started.

After explaining all of this to my therapist, he shared with me a quote from Carl Jung:

According to my therapist, this is what I’m experiencing. After turning forty, I began to truly discover who I was and define my priorities. Now forty-five, I’m finally able to be the person God created me to be. Everything before this was just research. He thinks it’s awesome to watch me discover myself, to see joy unfold in real time. He’s had a front row seat to witness anxiety and depression melt away as I become the real me.

So here we are, Annie and I are world travelers, dreaming of distant shores. But I think I’ve always been one even before I was one. My wanderlust had to come from somewhere.

I was never a good student. I was lucky to get a B in anything. Through most of my academic career, I barely held on with a C average. In sixth and seventh grade, my report cards were filled with Cs and Ds. I got my first A in eighth grade - not just a basic A - but perfect scores throughout. I ended this class with 100%, an A+.

Annie and I chilled last night, enjoying our bedtime routine. I brought this up with her: my discussion at therapy, how excited we are about upcoming travel plans, and other places we want to go (side note: she’s been looking at cheap airline rates to various European locales). Then I posed the question about my school days. After a string of barely passing grades, in which class did I get my first A? She responded without hesitation.

“Geography.”

Correct answer. I struggled in traditional education until the geography class mandated for all junior high students of my generation in the Marysville school district. For the first time in my life I didn’t just succeed, I thrived.

Perhaps I missed my calling as a tour guide or a travel agent. Maybe that is my life in an alternate universe. In this dimension though, I had to wait until my 40s to figure out I was always meant to be this person. Looking back though, I should have known all along. I should have realized this fact about my personality when I was a teenager. I grokked geography because deep down my soul hungered to be there. Every map, every capital city, every monument we studied was a potential destination. I was meant to fly, or drive, or float to anywhere other than here. Or teleport if such technology ever becomes viable.

When Inspiration Strikes

What does it take to be a writer? Some would advise writing a thousand words every day. The logic is sound. Composing words at such a rate would allow an author to compose a new novel every three months. Other suggestions include setting a schedule, regular time slots each (or every other) day dedicated to your craft. A few authors are lucky enough to consider writing their main source of income and they treat it like a day job with built in weekends and vacation. My recommendation? Define what it takes on your own.

I say this because I am not a normal writer. The odds of becoming a writer were never in my favor. Let me explain.

Photo courtesy of Gratisography

As a kid, I loved to read and was able to consume books well above my grade level. However, I had (have?) a learning disability making reading a slow process. I must read and reread paragraphs and pages for the sake of comprehension. My brain often rearranges word order or insert nonexistent vocabulary changing the meaning of texts on the first read. My ADHD imagination frequently distracts me from the subject matter before me, either predicting what will happen next, question what I would do in similar circumstances, or drift entirely into unrelated universes. Despite my challenges, I’ve always craved a good story; it’s been a lifelong pursuit since childhood.

Reading is an essential skill for authors. Readers are better writers because they are influenced by the syntax and cadence of other authors. If you read my work, you might see my influences from the masters of horror: Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Anne Rice. You could recognize the blend of fantasy and mythology I’ve learned from JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Max Brooks. A little deeper and you’ll discover how my skills were shaped by the poetic approach of Jackie Hill Perry, Sho Baraka, and Jason Petty (AKA Propaganda) and the inspirational works of Rob Bell, Carlos Whitaker, Rachel Held Evans, and Donald Miller.

The reading prerequisite of becoming an author is in my wheelhouse, even if it takes me much longer to read a single book than most people. However, I’d argue the content of the books I consume stick with me longer than most audiences. I can still explain plot point by plot point my favorite book from fourth grade and the novel I loved most when I was 21. My brain is disordered but it’s also Pandora’s box for trivial things.

Ask my elementary and junior high teachers if I had the potential of becoming an author, most of them would laugh at you. They might tell you I had the imagination to tell stories but lacked the attention span to actually write a book. Worse, every single one of my former testers would tell you how much I hated writing. You would hear testimony of how I actively avoided writing at all costs, even skipping homework if it required too much pencil to paper labor. They would show you examples of my horrendous penmanship, bad enough to make the sloppiest handwriting appear legible in comparison. Maybe if you’re lucky, you would meet the lone teacher who discovered I could accomplish more completing assignments and tests orally than if I had to write it all on printed worksheets.

In addition to my learning disability and my diagnosed ADHD, I was also functioning (I use that term loosely) with undiagnosed autism. By default, I interacted with my peers and saw the world differently than neurotypical kids. Without an official diagnosis, I had zero supports to navigate my environment as an autistic individual. I had to figure out how to learn on my own terms because what schools were doing for me wasn’t working.

Imagine if you will: a neurodivergent nerd with learning disabilities, from an impoverished home life, who hated writing and was a slow reader, churned through a failing education system, and frequently the target of emotional and physical bullying. That child has more potential of becoming a comedian than an author. The odds were stacked against me. But look at me now.

Wait. I still do not like my odds. I am a parent with a full time job who moonlights as a DJ, is a licensed minister, enjoys taking my wife out on dates, and lives on a farm. Where do I find the time to write? No clue. There isn’t an adequate answer for that question. It’s a thing I do without understanding how I do it. Like I said, I am not a normal writer.

My autism and ADHD do not allow for boredom, turning hobbies into obsessions and often leading down rabbit holes. My slow reading rate takes me a month to complete a book a speed reader could burn through in a couple hours. My obligations chew through time like The Very Hungry Caterpillar eating its way to the end of its story. I don’t have the freedom to set aside a few daily hours for writing or research. I don’t have the time, patience, or energy to scribble down one thousand words every day. I can only write when inspiration strikes. I’m sure other writers also work in similar spurt patterns and yet I still feel abnormal. I’m not sure how common my revolving periods of calm and flurry is inside the writing world.

My first book, ‘Kingdom of Odd’ took a little over two years to progress from the composition of the outline to completion of the first draft, and another year to slog through three revisions after feedback from beta readers. During that time, my now eleven year old was compelled to invent her own story idea for an early reader book called ‘A Unicorn Wish.’ She created the characters and setting then I helped her create an outline. Sometime while writing ‘Kingdom of Odd’ my ADHD got eager and thought of a few (several) other ideas for future books including a Christmas themed ghost story, a science fiction tale about superpowers in a global pandemic, and a picture book about love and global cultures. Those thoughts were jotted down in my phone’s notes app and I continued to focus on Kingdom of Odd. By focus, I mean I got distracted again. Inspiration struck and my autism said “Now or never buddy.” I opened a new Word document and I frantically typed a full first chapter for ‘Only for a Day’ (the superhero/pandemic one) based on the brief outline I had stored in my phone a few weeks earlier.

Nothing to worry about though. I dove back into completing ‘Kingdom of Odd,’ provided copies to some beta readers then awaited their responses. With feedback pending, I fleshed out the outline of ‘Only for a Day’ and picked up composing story where the first chapter ended. This should be the path normal authors follow: write a book, finish a book, start the next book. But I’m not a normal writer. Because I also used this time to write a complete outline for ‘The 12 Ghosts of Christmas’ including character profiles for each of the twelve ghosts. My brain also invented a few more (several) book ideas: alien invasions, dystopian futures, alternate dimensions, revenge, time travel, ghosts, and a lot more.

It’s OK though, I was focused on ‘Only for a Day.’ Then the notes and recommendations for ‘Kingdom of Odd’ were delivered and I went through rounds of edits and revisions. In January of this year, I started querying the completed manuscript to agents and returned to writing the first draft of ‘Do Dragons Sleep?’ I know what you’re thinking, that’s not ‘Only for a Day.’ Correct. But I had the idea, I created an outline and had to start the new project or else my mind would revolt. So now I’m querying a young adult medieval fantasy novel, and juggling two rough drafts, one a modern science fiction for adults, the second a young adult coming of age story with Norse influences.

Sweet. I can bounce back and forth, right? Then my wife threw me a curve ball. She thought of a horror story and wants me to help her write it. We spent a couple nights compiling an outline and character profiles. I wrote the first chapter. Now I have three works in progress. Annie wasn’t done though: she also had a plan for a children’s book. She wrote the first draft then I proposed some revisions. We got feedback from friends and family, I rewrote the tale and she set out to complete all the artwork. Once she finished the pictures, I began formatting ‘Polly was a Wog.’ So four WIPs.

Then a couple weeks ago, I was listening to a discussion on a podcast about the fear of death. Naturally this spawned an idea for another book so I added it to my notes app. However my special blend of autism and ADHD couldn’t leave a small spark alone. A day later, my mental processes stoked the embers into a consuming fire leaving me no choice than to write an intro and first scene of ‘Thanatophobia,’ a home invasion horror story and my fifth WIP.

Here’s where I stand. One book in the query trenches, three books in progress (one without an outline), and one book written but unformatted. I still have horses to feed, kids two raise, a wife to love and cherish, two more DJ gigs scheduled, a two week vacation booked with foreign travel, occasional visits to an open mic night, blog posts to publish, and weekly therapy. I haven’t even mentioned my recent foray into spoken word poetry. How do I do it all? I really, truly do not know.

Home, Away, and the Weirdness of Being

During our last trip to Hawaii, my wife and I went on a late night walk along Waikiki beach. We stopped to dance when passing by a bar with a musician playing music on an out door stage, watched some fire dancers practice free from the massive daytime crowds, and lingered along the shore while the sound of waves filled the silence around us. Backlit by the vibrance of skyscrapers and hotels with the expanse of starry skies and endless ocean before us, we soaked up all we could get. There was a life giving energy to the moment, a breath to revive our weary souls.

With my arms wrapped around Annie’s shoulders she told me how the time we spent there felt more real to her than anything else. We conversed about how important these trips were to both of us to connect with each other. It was a reminder of why we work so hard and love the way we live. We both have wandering spirits, a wanderlust hardwired into our being. It’s more than existing as soulmates, it’s as if we were created to see the world together.

We know there is life after kids, a life approaching faster that we could ever prepare. When we travel, whether it is a weeklong journey or a quick weekend excursion, we get glimpses of the way life could be, or the way it was meant to be. It’s a preview of a future when we no longer have the worry of homework, softball schedules, school dances, and convincing kids the importance of personal hygiene and household chores. Our bucket list is perpetually growing and it is our hearts desire to continually find each other through chasing destinations.

Thing is, we are not wealthy people. At least, not financially speaking. We eat cheap. We don’t maintain expensive smoking and drinking habits. We pursue affordable entertainment options. If free is an option, it’s our preferred choice. When we leave town, we stay in low cost hotels. We get the the cheap interior rooms on cruise boats. We look for bargain flights. We pack snacks for road trips. Mock us for our thriftiness but our budget consciousness enables our ability to pursue our dreams.

We also know we are blessed. We understand our traveling hobbies are not options available to everyone. We are aware we live, work, and travel to places impacted by addiction and poverty. Annie is better at it than I am, yet we both endeavor to use our privilege to benefit others. Life is fragile and there is no knowledge more present than the fact nothing is promised. We enjoy these opportunities while we can as frequently as possible because we might not be able to do this forever.

We escaped home again this last weekend for a family road trip to Boise. Saturday was one of the best days I’ve had I a long time. We visited a zoo and a historical site. We stayed in a cheap hotel. I introduced them to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My eleven year old daughter begged me to take her to more museums. We learned new things, bonded over fresh experiences, found joy together, bought souvenirs, took goofy photos, and refreshed our weary souls.

photo courtesy of Andria Casey

Now we are home again. We have resumed the regular routines of day jobs and school. My body is worn but my heart is full. Walking around downtown Spokane this morning, I had a revelation similar to the sentiments my wife expressed in Honolulu roughly this time last year.

Our time away seems more real than our time at home. Walking around downtown Spokane this morning, I sensed this oddness deep in my bones. Real life feels weird. Road trips to Seattle, Portland, Boise, and Cheyenne; flying away to Florida and Hawaii; cruises to Alaska and the Bahamas - these trips tire is out but fill our hearts. When we go we are closer to who we are to who we are than the daily grind of earning paychecks of conversing with colleagues. Our family’s heartbeat is found in miles traversed. Granted, we must return. The income of day jobs and weekend gigs fund our dream life away from home. Still, every time we go somewhere it becomes harder to readjust to normal life.

Then again, I’ve been weird my whole life. It’s time to embrace the weird until we can go away again. And again. And again.

On Special Interests

One common symptom of autism is having an oddly specific area of interest. It’s not just the “I like football” or “my favorite class at school is history” kind of thing that everyone experiences. Nor is it the general list of hobbies possessed by both neurotypical and neurodivergent people. The autistic special interest takes the normal curiosities and pleasures of fascination and entertainment then ferociously consumes every trivial aspect of that thing.

Everything in their world relates back to their special interest. Every conversation inevitably loops back to this thing because they know all there is to know about it. You might like that thing, but it is the most important thing to them. It borders obsession. Or as the National Autistic Society in the UK describes it: “intense and highly-focused interests.”

Let’s say you (a typically functional human) enjoys hiking. If you’re invited to go on a hike, you’ll probably say yes. You might even research a couple different trails to see which one is more popular or is easier to access. Then pretend we have a neurospicy individual who enjoys hiking because it is their special interest. They know how long it takes to drive to every trailhead. They know the length and elevation gain of each trail, how many times you’ll have to cross a stream and the sturdiness of the bridges at each crossing, and the varied vistas to see along the way. The normalized interest in hiking and the interest in hiking with autism are not the same thing.

As a late realized autistic, I’ve been reexamining my childhood through new lenses. Seeing myself as a kid with autism explains so many of my eccentricities and peculiar behavior. I was scripting before I even knew what scripting was. I had texture issues with clothes and food. I was sensory avoidant in almost everything except loud music and turbulent weather.

As for the special interests, I was sure I had them but couldn’t remember what they were. Perhaps my parents could tell you. At least I didn’t remember until recently.

Walking around with a colleague, we discussed how we remember the street names and business locations around downtown. I talked about the mental 3D map I’ve created like a holographic projection inside my cranium. This 3D map charts possible routes and detours between my current location in the space-time continuum and my destination. This is when it hit me. Maps were my special interest.

Image courtesy of Travel Safe

During my earliest memories, my dad sold windows and insulation from a small office in the Riverside neighborhood of Everett. His employer sent him to potential clients’ homes to measure the size of existing windows so he could provide accurate prices for replacements or sketch out the wall dimensions for quoting the cost of insulation.

He frequently had me ride shotgun with him. He believed dragging me to work with him a better option than leaving me home alone. We both benefitted. I helped him hold the tape measure in place and he taught me to navigate maps.

Not Apple Maps or Mapquest. Ever-present internet maps didn’t exist in 1983. He carried a spiral bound book showing the streets of Snohomish County, the kind that directed you to a different page when the road you travelled reached the edge of the current page. Eventually, he changed jobs and his sales territory grew. Soon the paper map collection grew to include Pierce, King, Skagit, and Island Counties. I continued to accompany him throughout my youth. Rand McNally books were sacred texts in the days before GPS navigation and I became a master navigator before I graduated elementary school.

I never grew out of this phase. When I started hiking and climbing in the 90s, I became obsessed with the 100 Hikes books published by The Mountaineers. In addition to text description of the trails and photos of Washington’s alpine wilds, there were trail maps detailing every switchback through wooded, meadow, and rocky terrain. As a student, geography was the first class I passed with an A. As a reader, maps at the beginning of books elevate the story for me. From Tolkien’s Middle Earth to Stephen King’s Under the Dome, to Justin Cronin’s The Passage: maps bring me into these fictional worlds.

Image courtesy of Stephen King and Scribner

As an adult, I’ll zoom in and out of various locations in Google Maps, virtually exploring locales I’ll probably never get to visit. My maps fascination helped me discover a swing in the middle of the jungle while we were in Waikiki. It’s my favorite tool when planning vacations, whether we’re doing a road trip to see family in Cheyenne, returning to my hometown of Marysville, or going to a place we’ve never been before. I used it to search for tattoo parlors in Norway, Costa Rica, and The Bahamas - the next big adventures we want to partake. I’ve used it to familiarize myself with the town of Paisley Scotland so I don’t get lost when I check visiting Paisley Abbey off my bucket list.

During those early 80s days of carefree kidhood, there were two other special interests that tied into my love of maps. My younger self was obsessed with drawing mazes. This predated my fondness for maps though. To keep me quiet during church services, my parents supplied me with a pad of graph paper and a writing stick; by the time the sermon was over, the whole page was filled with geometrical doodles, branching pathways, and only one true route from start to finish. When I began reading maps, it was like seeking a path through the maze, only through the real world. Mazes were maps of mystery and puzzles. Road maps also contained mysteries, but fewer dead ends.

Image courtesy of Outside Magazine

My other autistic special interest also stemmed from my dad’s time selling windows and insulation: architecture. I helped him measure so many homes I became enamored with the way they were designed. Floor plans are basically maps of buildings. I began creating house designs in grade school on the same graph paper I once used for mazes. A decade later I was taking architectural drafting classes at MPHS. Up through my senior year, I had ambitions of a career as an architect. Even now I’ll occasionally have the urge to sketch out a rough blueprint of my dream home - a dream that is constantly evolving.

Maps. Mazes. Masonry. Well, not masonry but the alliteration makes me happy. So my special interests are maps: geographical maps, fantasy maps, maps that are mazes, maps of buildings, maps like floor plans, and the mental maps existing only inside my head to help me navigate the world around me. It’s my autistic superpower.

Sedona

Two years and a half ago, we got Sedona intending her to become Chloe’s new barrel racing horse. Our daughter needed a step up horse, a steed who could help Chloe reach her full potential as a rider and a competitor.

Chloe rode Sedona bareback the first day we had her. It’s one of the happiest moments I have ever witnessed. The two made a quick bond and practiced together any chance Chloe could find. Sedona was a little overweight so we placed her on a strict diet and had her exercising in the round pen daily. We took her out for walks and runs on trails and roads. Sedona worked her muscles walking up and down a hill we affectionately refer to as “the butt kicker hill.”

photo courtesy of Susan Shouse Photography

Sedona competed with Chloe through most of the 2019 rodeo season and we watched as both the girl and her horse made improvements in their skill. After the Covid pandemic ended everyone’s rodeo season for 2020, Chloe continued to ride and work with Sedona. She had her eyes on the future. She knew that one canceled season was not the end of anyone’s rodeo career. If she was going to compete again, Sedona would need to stay in shape.

Chloe hustled. Sometimes she begged to do it and other times we bribed her. With the 2021 season approaching, we hired a trainer to work with Chloe and it looked like Sedona was going to be the perfect partner.

Then April 22 happened.

Like many other days preceding it, Chloe and Sedona were in the round pen working. My daughter stood in the middle directing the speed and direction for her horse to run. Some occurrences come out of nowhere, freak accidents you are unable to explain even as you watch it happen. One moment, Sedona was running like a race horse, the next she was spooked and tried to jump the gate. Sedona is not a jumping horse and she was too short to clear the gate. Instead of landing on the other side, Sedona’s front right leg slipped into the smallest space possible: directly between the wood post, the end of the metal gate, and the chain looped to keep the gate closed. Sedona’s sudden predicament scared her even more and she started thrashing around, aggravating any potential injury caused by her dreams of flight.

Chloe, Christian, and I made quick efforts to free Sedona while JJ ran in the house to get Annie. The next few hours were spent trying to calm the horse and clean her wounds. Phone calls were made to the emergency overnight veterinarian who gave us practical advice and we arranged to bring her in the next morning. We feared she would need to be put down. Chloe feared losing the bond she spent two years building with Sedona. We worried about the potential costs about the veterinary care Sedona would need.

In the end, all our fears were relieved. Miraculously, Sedona did not break any bones. Her official diagnosis was a complete degloving. This is a severe injury where she did more than tear away her fur – she also ripped off the outer layers of her skin and connective tissue. She managed to deglove a solid ring around the lower part of her leg, requiring multiple stitches and isolation while she healed.

This picture is her wound several weeks after the initial injury. The first photos we sent to the veterinarian are too gory to share.

Results were better than we imagined possible. However, Sedona still had a long road ahead of her. The next few days were chaotic and filled with sleep deprivation for both horse and humans. She would need regular bandage changes for several weeks, requiring sedation for her to allow us to wrap fresh bandages around her leg. The vet prescribed antibiotics and pain medications, both of which Sedona hated consuming. Finally, she would need to miss out on the 2021 rodeo season.

Instead of forfeiting the season Chloe chose to train Renegade; the result of her decision is a beautiful and victorious story deserving a blog post of its own. Sedona slowly recovered, eventually rejoined the heard, stopped exercising, and ate a bunch of hay. She regained a bunch of weight but she would live, nay … thrive.

Sedona’s injury did more than complicate Chloe’s rodeo season, it threw a wrench into our wedding plans. Annie and I had arranged two horses to go with us to the wedding: Sedona and Roxy. After exchanging vows on the beach, we hoped to ride off into the sunset together. With Sedona’s injury, that possibility was cast into doubt. Renegade has a habit of bucking and throwing riders and we only have one other ridable horse – the mare Annie planned on using.

We kept Sedona healthy and fed. We let her walk the pasture at her own leisurely pace. Gradually, she built up her strength. Her wounds were scabbing over. It was clear I would need to begin working with her soon, shed some of the belly weight she added while in recovery, and build a bond with her so she trusts me when there are ocean waves crashing next to us.

Sedona’s most common recent interactions with me were through the ritual of medicating, sedating, and changing bandages. None of those activities were experiences she enjoyed; she actively attempted to avoid it as much as she could. She wanted nothing to do with me but she didn’t keep that attitude. First she let me approach her while she was munching on hay. Next she allowed me to scratch her neck and ears. Then she started lining up with the other horses when she saw me walking from the house to the barn to feed them. She would follow me as I dragged a bale into the pasture and stood patiently while I broke open the twine. As soon as I threw a flake of alfalfa, she’d turn away from me to go eat. Finally, on a Monday night a few weeks ago, I took a bale out to the horses while all the horses were grazing in the back half of the pasture. I looked up and saw this running at me.

Instead of waiting for me to toss some food in her general direction, she walked up to me and invaded my personal space. I spread out several flakes; the other horses found their own personal pile and started to dine. Not Sedona. She stayed with me. I picked up her feet to check her hooves, rubbed her back to see if she had any sore spots, and patted her neck to let her know she’s a good girl. As I was running my fingers through her mane, she rested her jaw on my shoulder and turned her neck to place her head behind mine – the closest imitation of a hug a horse can give.

I knew then it was time. It was time for me to start working with Sedona in the round pen. I knew it was time for her to have a rider. I knew it was time for me to (figuratively and literally) get back on the horse.

Last Saturday, we did a thing. While the family completed morning barn chores, I got Sedona into the round pen and strapped a saddle to her back. We walked around in circles in the round pen for a while, both of us reacquainting the experience of riding (me) or being ridden (Sedona). Feeling brave, I followed Chloe out to the back half of our property. It’s the first time in a couple years we’ve rode horses together. We did some practicing in our arena and I had Sedona walking through a pole bending pattern. I even got her into a trot.

Three weeks from now, Sedona will be introduced to a new environment: road trips and beaches. A couple weeks ago, I was feeling nervous about how she would handle my weight or how I would manage to control her in the sand. Now I feel much more confident and prepared. I think Sedona and I are going to enjoy our time together.

Coffee & Road Trips

Dad’s stories used to be one of my kids favorite things but they make the request less frequently these days. Listening to me reminisce about my wonder years isn’t as interesting to teenagers. I’ve also reached the age or reruns. “I’ve heard this one before, Dad.” Still, when they request me to entertain them with tales of my youth, I oblige. I won’t be able to do this for much longer.

Last weekend, they wanted crazy driving stories. Most of tales I have to tell about diving wild involve my brother, Aaron. I told them about the time he picked me up from school and we scared a student driver by head banging to some metal music turned up to full volume while heading down the long driveway from the MPHS campus. Story time ended with an anecdote from a road trip we took to Cheyenne in the summer of 96.

It was an ill fated trip. The original plan was a non-stop drive straight through from Seattle to Cheyenne, but it was nearly midnight when we reached Billings and Aaron was too tired to continue. He got us a hotel room and we slept hard. In the morning, we discovered I had accidentally locked his keys in the car and we had to wait for a police officer to pick the lock for us. On the way back home, we spent the night with one of our dad’s college friends in Meridian. After they woke us up for breakfast, news broke about the bombing at the Atlanta Olympics. Then Aaron’s car broke down on the freeway after we passed Caldwell. He took the next exit and his Ford Lemon sputtered to a stop on front of a gas pump in Sand Hollow. There was a mechanic there who took a look at the car. He didn’t have the parts to fix it and it would take a week to get it if he placed an order. Instead, he duct taped some hoses together so it would hold long enough to get to a fancier mechanic in Ontario. After the car was fully repaired, we got lost trying to get out of Ontario. Attempting to make up time, Aaron got caught speeding by a flying radar trap somewhere north of Umatilla. The ticket was for driving 15 mph over the limit.

I didn’t tell the kids about any of that though. Instead I focused on our arrival in Cheyenne.

Aaron and I agreed it would be funny if we were blasting west coast rap while driving through the city of cowboys. I selected our entrance music as we rolled into town: Gospel Gangstaz. Windows down, volume up. The bass bumped and thumped the whole way to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

There was one necessity visibly absent during our hip-hop ride: coffee shops. Growing up in the Seattle suburbs, America’s coffee Mecca, we were accustomed to seeing drive-thru coffee stands in parking lots at every major intersection. It felt weird driving through Wyoming’s biggest city and not seeing a coffee shop. Or any big city without seeing a single latte stand.

Granted, this was 1996. The concept of espressos were still an American novelty abundant on the urban coasts but foreign in the heartlands. Small town USA had yet to discover the joys of breves and americanos. In mid-90s Cheyenne, if you wanted coffee, you brewed it at home with the ground Folgers you purchased at the grocery store, or you bought a cup with unlimited refills at 24 hour diners like Sheri’s.

Still, Aaron was a coffee addict and I was coffee curious. We wanted to get some real good caffeinated brew, The first question we asked when we arrived at The Budd house: where can we find a coffee stand? Of the many aunts and uncles gathered, only one knew where we could seek our treasure. There was only one drive-thru shop and it was located on the other side of town. Aaron got the directions and we jumped back into his car for the cross town drive in hopes to find the glorious java.

It was there. As promised. No other vehicles were in line when we arrived so we drove up to the window without a wait. My order was simple, a single shot mint latte. Aaron placed an order for his usual: a quad shot mocha mint. Unfortunately, what was a normal drink in the Seattle suburbs was unusual in Cheyenne. How unusual? Well, they had never heard of it.

“What’s that?” The barista asked.

Aaron asked if she knew how to make a mocha. She did. Then if she knew what a double shot was. She did. By this time, he had the attention of both baristas.

“Well,” he said, “if it takes two shots to make a double shot, then it would take four shots to make a quad shot.”

“Four shots?” said one barista. “Can you do that?” asked the other.

Aaron nodded and instructed the ladies at Cheyenne’s only drive through coffee shop how to assemble his quad shot mocha mint.

Today, there are at least seven Starbucks in Cheyenne (more if you include those located inside of grocery stores) and a couple dozen other cafes, drive-thru stands, and boutique shops offering a variety of fancy espressos. If you’re ever in Chy-Town, I’d recommend stopping by Rail Yard Coffee Haus.

It’s a new age where coffee is holy water and every caffeine craving American has their favorite spot to get their fix. 25 years ago was a different time, we were not quite so obsessed. The plentiful options available now were once nonexistent.

I’ve told this story dozens of times. My Seattle friends don’t believe it ever happened because coffee shops have been a fixture of our culture since the grunge era. Younger kids don’t believe me because they can’t remember anything before the ubiquitous latte stand. As I relayed this tale one more time with my kids, I had a revelation.

The first quad shot mocha ever made in the city of Cheyenne was made for my brother. This as an indisputable fact.

The baristas working at the coffee stand we visited had never made a quad shot before. They didn’t even know it was possible which means such a strong coffee had never been brewed in their shop. Since that lone latte stand was the only coffee shop in Cheyenne, there was nowhere anyone else could have previously ordered such a monstrosity. Therefore, it is only logical to deduct my brother’s order was the first time a quad shot had been made in the entire city of Cheyenne.

In previous iterations of this story, I never considered the monumental implications of what my brother accomplished the sunny July day in the summer of 96. To be the first patron to order a quad shot mocha in the entire city makes him a legend.

There should be an award for such feats.

Four years after our trip, Aaron and his wife became residents of Cheyenne. They’ve made the city their home. And it’s become easier for Aaron to find espressos with more than two shots.

The Covid Effect

It’s been a year (give or take a couple weeks) since the initial cases of Covid-19 were reported in the city of Wuhan. A little more than a month later, the first documented cases would appear in the US and we were given warnings this would turn into a global pandemic. In the following months, the Coronavirus overwhelmed our culture impacting every American – some through getting sick but most through changes in lifestyle. 

When states begin implementing various orders to wear masks or close non-essential businesses, we thought it would only be a few weeks and life would get back to normal. Spring and summer passed with the pandemic dominating headlines, controlling American life, and a menagerie of state or municipality protections remaining in place. Now in autumn with winter upon us, we’re seeing new government measures issued to try and contain this virus and it seems things will never be the same. 

It’s obvious the shelter in place directives interrupted the way Americans live, work, and play. The three Es of education, employment, and entertainment all drastically altered how they exist and operate. When this pandemic is over (and it will be over eventually) it’s likely some of the changes in our lifestyle will never return to the way it was before. 

But is that a bad thing? 

There is cause for concern, elements of American culture in need of repair. We’re facing an enormous mental health crisis as isolation is not good for the human psyche. There is a generation of school kids falling behind as they’re missing essential learning while schools are scrambling to prevent making the pandemic worse. The masses of newly unemployed workers will need to find new jobs. Many who contracted Covid-19 and recovered have been and will be suffering long term effects of the virus. 

There is also reason for hope. Fewer pollutants have been released into our atmosphere and waterways because less people are travelling. Reduced exhaust and fossil fuel usage means we’re breathing cleaner air; rivers and lakes are clearer. People are paying better attention to basic hygiene – doing the things they should have always been doing like washing their hands frequently, sanitizing high use surfaces, exercising, spending time in the wilderness, and eating at home instead of getting fast food. There’s a greater attention on science and increased appreciation for nurses and doctors. Individuals are investing in acts of kindness and generosity in ways to inspire and renew faith in humanity. 

In this pandemic, as with most things, both the good and the bad inhabit the same space. 

But what about the post Corona life? What lasting affect will Covid have on our culture? With a few different possible vaccines on the horizon, I think it might be beneficial to speculate on what our world will be like after life returns to normal. Or if it ever will be normal again. 

Since business as usual went on lockdown last spring, corporate America adjusted. In the process, we learned to use technology to our advantage, canceling non-essential meetings and moving important group conversations into virtual spaces like Zoom or Google Meet. Employers got creative giving more employees the option to work from home. New remote jobs became available. Those still working on site have been encouraged to stay home when they’re sick. These are changes to American life I hope never return to the way things were before. 

I am optimistic supervisors, managers, directors, and CEOs everywhere have learned some things are better for an email and not every idea is worth a half hour meeting in a conference room. I wish for telecommuting becomes more prevalent as it will make our workforce larger and more diverse. More people working is good for the economy and more people working from home is good for the environment. Side note: I don’t miss my 25 minute commute to the office. I hope more people consider the health of their neighbors, friends, and colleagues before leaving the home with flulike symptoms. As much as we all hate wearing masks, people should keep them – not to wear indefinitely, but for times of illness. Maybe if people wore masks any time they were sick, we would live in a healthier society by limiting the spread of the flu, common cold, and other contagious diseases.

(psst, wear a mask) 

Still, there are things I miss in this Covid world. When this is all over, I hope some elements from our former lives resume as soon as possible. I miss concerts and movie theaters. I miss hanging out in coffee shops. I miss seeing smiles on strangers’ faces. I miss parades and festivals and farmers markets. Of everything we’ve lost, there is experience I miss more than anything else and I hope it isn’t gone forever: the samples at Costco. 

Please bring back the samples as soon as it is safe to do so.

The First Thanksgiving

American history is filled with epic stories, memorable tales to promote the American spirit and teach the shared values of our nation. Some of these stories are true, others a complete fabrication. Most are based on actual events yet omit a few key details. The first Thanksgiving is one of those famous accounts, historically accurate to a point, yet incomplete. 

The main beats of the story are known to anyone who grew up in the USA. Settlers of the Plymouth Colony, the Pilgrims, had a rough start in the New World. Of the 100 passengers from the Mayflower who founded the village, only half lived a year in America. Their first winter was bitter, cold, and cruel. 50 of them died before spring. They feared they might not survive another winter until they met Squanto. Squanto was a Native of one local tribe. He taught the white folks to grow corn and catch fish. With his help, they learned to store their goods to endure the colder seasons of the region. The chief from another local tribe brought supplies to the new villagers to help them build their town and extra food when provisions sent from England were insufficient. After the Pilgrims’ first successful harvest, four women prepared a feast so the town could rejoice and be thankful for their bounty. They returned the generosity of the neighboring tribe by inviting them to dine with the townsfolk.

image courtesy of History Channel 

All of which is true. Except there are some key details missing, starting with Squanto whose real name was Tisquantum. They shortened his name as a way to mock him. Tisquantum was the lone survivor of his tribe – the rest had died from an epidemic disease. The land chosen by the Pilgrims to build their village was home to Tisquantum’s tribe, abandoned when they perished. While Tisquantum helped the Pilgrims learn to survive, he fell ill a year later and passed away. Despite receiving help from Tisquantum and the tribal leader Massasoit, the friendly relationship between the Wampanoags soured over time. Indigenous culture was incompatible with the strict puritan religious values professed by the Pilgrims. The European immigrants saw the local tribes as savage people who should assimilate and convert religions, or be banished. Soon the there would be a war between the colonists and the Natives. Finally, the Plymouth Plantation continued to struggle economically after their first feast. Many of the founders left to start their own settlements elsewhere in the colony. Eventually, the smaller Plymouth Colony was absorbed by the larger Massachusetts Colony. 

The tragic bits from the legend of the first Thanksgiving have become footnotes to the historical record. We remember the highlights and retell the sanitized version. Yet the parts we edit out of the story are still important. The fragile truce between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoags provides context to King Phillip’s War 50 years after the first Thanksgiving in Plymouth. The way the settlers treated Tisquantum reflects the way white people exploited Native Americans like Pocahontas and Sacagawea to further their own interests. Their tension was a precursor to the India Wars against Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse or the Apache US conflict against Geronimo. 

The whole story might not be a happy story, yet to fully understand history we need to know the sections left out by elementary historians. We need to see the ugly alongside the beautiful. Hopefully we learn from the worst of our stories so we are not doomed to repeat our mistakes. 

When we talk about our firsts, there will be a lot of bumbling errors. Often our folly makes those events memorable. Like my first Thanksgiving outside of my parent’s place. 

At the end of the summer of ’99, Travis, Shane, and I moved to Nampa and rented an off campus apartment so Travis didn’t have to spend his senior year living in a dorm room. Autumn came. None of us had the time or finances to travel back to Seattle for Thanksgiving; it was the first we would experience the holiday without our families. Along with our mutual friend Nick, we devised a plan to celebrate on our own. We brainstormed the menu, listing off the traditional foods our families served every year and created a shopping list. We went to the grocery store as a team and filled a cart with festive ingredients and split the bill four ways. We divided the cooking duties and prepared the meal as close to what our families served as we were able. We invited Travis and Nick’s girlfriends to join us and set our table for six. 

The happy version of this experience is a success story. We came, we saw, we conquered. It’s a tale of friends coming together to replicate a family event in the dearth of actual family. If I ended the story there, all of it would be true, but it wouldn’t be complete. Our dinner wasn’t super smooth. Shane used a full ten pound bag of spuds for his mashed potatoes, the finished product didn’t even fit in the biggest bowl we had. The turkey was a little dry and overcooked. I burnt the rolls. Still, we dined as if it as the finest meal ever prepared. Most of the dishes we cooked were completely consumed, with one exception: the cranberry sauce.

image courtesy of 12 Tomatoes 

 As we cleared the table of dirty dishes and empty platters, we discovered the cranberries still standing in the shape of the can it came in, untouched with a clean spoon sitting next to it. The four of us questioned each other – why didn’t anyone eat the cranberry sauce? Turns out, none of us liked cranberry sauce, neither did our two guests. Why did we buy it and serve it? Turns out it was something each of our families served every year so we included it because we thought it’s something needed. However, we never took the time to ask if any of us would eat it. We just assumed everyone else liked it. 

When I tell people the story of my first Thanksgiving on my own, I always talk about the cranberry sauce. Our mistake is an object lesson of the dangers of making assumptions. It’s a reminder of the value of getting complete input from invested parties before taking action. It’s an example of how the way things have always been done isn’t the way it must be done. And it makes me laugh every time I recall the dumbfounded looks on our faces as we realized the error of our ways. 

America looks to the Pilgrims as their epic first Thanksgiving. I recall the cranberry sauce for my own epic first Thanksgiving. 

I have a feeling there are going to be a lot of first Thanksgivings this year. More people will be staying home, less travelling to visit extended families. Dining room tables will be missing settings for cousins, aunts, and uncles. Meals will feed five instead of twenty-five. Several brave chefs will be baking a turkey for the first time on their own. Many Americans will be eating their first Thanksgiving meal not prepared by their parents or not hosted at their grandparents. 2020 is there year several of us will just hibernate. 

We know because we’re one of those families. Annie has always celebrated Thanksgiving at her grandma’s house with her siblings, large extended family, plus everyone’s spouses and kids. I’ve joined her the last couple years as a buffet of food is spread out in the kitchen, soda is stocked in the cooler on the side porch, football plays on the TV in the living room, and kids run wild and free through the woods behind their house. Grandma canceled Thanksgiving this year because of the pandemic and Annie’s numerous relatives are adopting alternate plans. We are staying at our farm and cooking our own holiday meal for the first time ever. 

Look, I know 2020 has sucked. It’s been a rough time for a lot of people. Lonely holidays absent the family who typically populate our memories are not the ideal end caps to a rotten year. However, your revised holiday doesn’t have to match the dismal spirit of the year though. Sure, it won’t be perfect, but it shouldn’t be terrible either. 

Embrace the mistakes because there will be mistakes. Hopefully, you learn from your errors. The Pilgrim’s mistreatment of Tisquantum should teach us that generosity often comes from places we don’t deserve. Their crumbling relationship with the Wampanoags is a warning against burning bridges. On a less destructive scale, my untouched cranberry sauce is a lesson to do better research before taking action. Sometimes, the bad parts of our stories make us cringe, other times they make us laugh. Either way, they should remain a part of our stories. 

Firsts are memorable for a reason. Make yours epic. America’s first Thanksgiving is the stuff of legends because of the lessons it teaches about survival, charity, and gratitude. My first Thanksgiving in Nampa is a personal legend because we were young, dumb, and trying to figure out how to survive on our own. If this is your first Thanksgiving removed from your usual traditional family gatherings, you have the opportunity to make it legendary too. Perhaps you might begin a new tradition to follow for years to come.

Like a Plane in the sunset

Waiting on you has been like a pilot flying a plane into the sunset being the last human to see the beautiful sight before the world is cast into darkness. 

Waiting on you has been like a little kid at bedtime hoping to stay awake a little longer - just five more minutes daddy please. 

Waiting on you has been like ordering a meal at a popular restaurant, anticipation filled with aromas from the kitchen so strong you can taste the food before it even arrives. 

Waiting on you is like a baseball game and the home team has the bases loaded when the star player steps up to bat, as the first pitch is thrown you know it’s going to be a grand slam. 

Waiting on you has been like a comedian telling a a funny story and she takes a deep breath after delivering the punchline before the crowd erupts with laughter. 

Waiting on you has been like a hike in the woods on a spring day while the roar of a waterfall grows increasingly louder long before it’s visible through the trees. 

Waiting on you has been like a radio station playing your favorite song as you reach your destination so you let the engine idle until the song is over because you need to sing along with every note. 

Waiting on you has been like savoring every moment every rainy day, of every mile driven on a road trip, of every sloppy wet kiss given by a dog, of barbecue smoke, family movie nights, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, foggy mornings, and a comfortable bed at the end of a long day. 

No longer waiting on you has been a fulfillment of joy, anticipation and preparation subsided, to have you here and hold you in our arms knowing some day you will protest bedtime, tell jokes, climb mountains, and giggle after puppy kisses. 

 Until then, I’ll forever be a pilot flying my plane into your sunset.

Bragging Rights

On April 24, 2013 Mark Encarnación sent a simple text message: “The razor-toothed piranhas of the genera Serrasalmus and Pygocentrus are the most ferocious freshwater fish in the world. In reality they seldom attack a human.” It took him 25.9 seconds while standing outside Microsoft Studios in Redmond, WA. He was also wearing a blindfold. It is a world record; no one on earth has written those two sentences into a text message in less time than 25.9 seconds. Mr. Encarnación has the right to brag about being the fastest blindfolded texter on planet earth.

Super Mario Bros was released in 1985. Since then, the video game has challenged and delighted several generations of gamers. Most people are not able to beat the game in a single sitting. Some people (like myself) gave up after the water level. However, it is possible to complete it - defeating the final boss after 4 minutes and 55 seconds. Well, you can if you are a streamer with the pseudonym Kosmic who currently holds the record for the fastest Super Mario Bros speedrun. He is definitely bragging about his achievement.


Albert Gonzalez is in the middle of serving a 20 year prison sentence for hacking. It is the longest penalty given to any person for cybercrimes. Not sure he wants to brag about that but he could if he so desired.

Catalin Alexandru Duru rode a homemade quadcopter across Lake Oareau setting a record for farthest flight by hoverboard. Feliks Zemdegs holds the Rubik’s Cube record for solving the puzzle/toy in 4.22 seconds. And Joey Chestnut is the hot dog eating champion consuming a record of 74 hot dogs with buns in 10 minutes. They all have rights to brag about their feats of skill.

Not everyone has bragging rights worth of a world record. However, we all find something to brag about. Whether it is drumming in a band at local bars or the ability to make a really good souffle, we all have claims to make ourselves feel special. Sure, we might not be the best ever but we are pretty damn good. This is how we navigate our social hierarchies and find status amongst our tribe. Me? I can tell a great story. You? You’ll have to let me know your bragging rights.

Today, however, I do not want to brag about me. I would like to brag on my fiancée’s behalf because she will never do it for herself. Why am I bragging about Annie? Well ...

In this picture, she is nearing the end of a four mile hike along Rialto Beach to Hole in the Wall. This is the longest path we have hiked together as a family In addition to all the walking: we also scrambled over rocks to observe tide pools along the shore. The next day, we drove into the Hoh Rainforest for another hike. It was shorter but a bit more strenuous, a little under 100’ elevation gain in about a half mile before coming back down to the trailhead.

It might not seem like much. Just a couple short hikes. A walk in the woods and a stroll along the beach. Most people would call it romantic. However, there’s an additional detail I should add. Annie completed these consecutive hikes while tent camping the previous nights in occasional rain while six and a half months pregnant.

We only have 18 summers with each of the kids. They will still be around after they turn 18 but we hope they begin to seek out their own adventures after graduating high school. We have 18 summers to make memories with them before the real world takes over. 18 summers of life lessons, magic and wonder, unique experiences, the thrill of travel, and the joy of discovery. Annie is more aware of this reality than anyone I have ever met. She did not go hiking last week for her own enjoyment - she went for the sake of our kids so they could see and do and be there. She is a determined woman who will jump through any hoop necessary and make personal sacrifices to ensure our kids get the best summers with us during the limited time we have as a whole family.

Thousands of people visit Rialto Beach and the Hoh Rainforest every year. Our hikes are common destinations for people visiting Olympic National Park. Annie’s feat of endurance is one that has been completed countless times before us and will be done many more times in the future. However, I can’t think of anyone who did so with as much purpose and passion as Annie. And that’s pretty damn good.

Pondering 40

A year ago, my fortieth birthday arrived and was pleasantly celebrated then ended without much fanfare. However, I crossed this milestone with a measure of optimism. I reached 40 years of life with a wonderful and beautiful standing beside me, supporting me and encouraging me. The two of us had solid plans for our lives and dreams to pursue. I had been losing weight thanks to a healthier diet and more active lifestyle. Our kids were happy, the farm was functioning, and life was good. By the end of the year, we were celebrating New Years Eve with games, drinks, friends, and laughter. 

 Then 2020 began. 

 I know it’s been a tough year for everyone. Weird weather. Earthquakes in the Inland Northwest. Murder hornets. And a pandemic that closed schools and businesses everywhere. Government orders to shelter in place. It’s like the events of the last five months have been scripted by a sadistic 10-year-old member of the Future Anarchists of America. 

 We’ve promised our kids tickets to their first big grown up concert for their sixteenth birthdays. Christian turns sixteen in September so we got tickets to the Hella Mega Tour in Seattle: Green Day, Weezer, and Fall Out Boy. Thanks to the Coronavirus, that tour has been delayed until 2021. 

We had planned and saved and budgeted and planned some more to make a road trip to Cheyenne for Frontier Days in July. This is the first year I’ve planned to take the whole family, and I haven’t been there since I was a teenager. Unfortunately, this is the year it’s canceled. Another casualty of COVID-19.

However, as this year is wild and unprecedented for all Americans, it isn’t the global health crisis that completely derailed the optimism I held last May. I turned 40 in good health and great spirits. This year, things got weird.

In January, we discovered Annie was pregnant. That was a bit of a surprise. Since then, we’ve been hustling to amass all of the necessities of welcoming a newborn to the world, reorganizing the house to fit the eighth member of the family into our small home, and taking measures to protect the baby’s health. All of this during a pandemic making it harder to shop for baby goods and challenging to navigate hospitals for prenatal doctor appointments.

If that wasn’t enough, this is the year my body decided to fall apart. For most of my life, I’ve been healthy. As a kid, I was rarely sick and never missed school due to illness. I reached adulthood healthy and active. As a grown up, my biggest health issue was obesity. Despite being overweight, I didn’t have any other issues. My heart was strong, I had never broken a bone, never endured surgery for any reason, never been hospitalized. My only adult trips to the ER was for a bloody nose that wouldn’t stop bleeding and for chest pains that were diagnosed as a strained muscle. 

My streak of good health ended in 2020. In March, my gut started to hurt with what I thought was constipation. After three days of pain, I drove myself to the ER. They ran labs and took CT scans. Then I was admitted for an extended stay. My diagnosis: acute diverticulitis with perforation. In plain English, my colon was infected and it ruptured, leaving a hole in a place where a hole should not exist. 

When I was discharged, they sent me home with a prescription for a couple different antibiotics, instruction to rest and avoid heavy lifting, a low fiber diet for a couple weeks to be replaced by a high fiber diet, a list of foods to avoid, and hopes that my colon would heal on its own. 

A month later, the stabbing pains returned, worse than before. This time, Annie drove me to the hospital. I was admitted again. The diverticulitis had not healed. The perforation remained, and the infection was worse. In addition to the infected colon, they also discovered an abscess leaning against my bladder. Doctors did a procedure to drain the abscess and scheduled a partial colectomy. When it was time for surgery, plans changed and they gave me an ileostomy instead. They also discovered the infection spread to my appendix so they took that out at the same time. When the operation was complete, my small intestines were disconnected from my large intestines. If you’re familiar of how the body functions after such a procedure, you know what I had attached to my stomach. If you don’t know, you could google it, but I recommend you don’t want to know. 

With protective measures in place at hospitals concerning the pandemic, visitors were not allowed during my second stay at the hospital. This left me lonely and restricted to FaceTime to talk to Annie and the kids. My older daughter struggled with this predicament. More than just missing me, she hated the idea of me being sick and stuck at the hospital. According to her, I was the one who stayed, who was always there. Suddenly, her vision of me was no longer true. I was discharged on her birthday, and the phone call to tell her the news that Sunday morning is probably the best gift I could have given her. And her reaction was priceless.

The Wednesday before my 41st birthday, I returned to the care or surgeons to have an ileostomy takedown – a reversal of the surgery I had four weeks earlier. The doctors reconnected my small and large intestines, and sent me back home to rest and recover. 

My recovery is going well. However, these last few months are not what we imagined they would be. For me to be hospitalized twice while Annie to be pregnant and for all of this to happen during this moment of history seems like a cruel joke. It is also peculiar for my body to suddenly start falling apart after a lifetime of remarkably good health and the progress and changes I’ve made to be healthier. 

2020 in review so far inspires one singular question. What in the name of all that is good and holy is going on? When I pondered what it meant to be 40, this is not what I had in mind.

I believed them

My brother and I always wanted a younger sister but our parents didn't want a third child.

the Casey boys

Since a biologically related sister wasn't an option, Aaron and I had to find our own through bonds formed by choice rather than blood. I met my little sister during my junior year of high school. She had just moved to the area and we formed an easy friendship. By the time I graduated high school, she was one of my best friends. We never developed a romantic interest and we were able to confide in each other as if we were siblings. Even today, I still occasionally call her sis.

hello, 1997

in the spring of 1996, she told me about a guy from school who kept calling her phone; if she answered, he'd say something creepy or leave annoying messages if she didn’t answer. He followed her on campus; she often caught him leering at her. While he had not touched her, she always felt unsafe if he was present. A couple weeks later, she joined me and two other guys to post promotional posters for the drama club's production of Neil Simon's Rumors. Mike ran inside the library while she and I sat in the cab of his truck, and Damien sat in the back. We were in the middle of conversation when she froze.

"Oh, my god, it's him."
"Who?" I asked.
"Remember me telling you about that guy who was stalking me? That's him."

The kid was walking toward us along the sidewalk. I started hollering to get his attention. "Hey, hey!"

He walked toward the open passenger window of Mike's truck. "You talking to me?"

I pointed to next to me and asked him if he recognized my friend. He denied it. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I don't believe you." His expression changed from oblivion to annoyance. I continued with instruction. I told him he was to leave her alone, stop calling her, not to speak to her, not to look at her. If I ever heard he was not following those guidelines, he would regret it.

By the time I stopped talking, his bothered look gave way to pure anger. "What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

Honestly, nothing. He was bigger and tougher. I wouldn't be able to hurt him if I tried. Thankfully, Damien was still in the back of the truck. Despite a teddy bear personality, Damien could be intimidating. Damien stood in the bed of the truck, crossed his arms, and said, "Or you'll have to deal with me." The kid's face changed once again, from anger to fear. He took a couple steps backward, confirmed he understood my demands, then turned and walked away as fast as he could. My friend never complained about him again.

During the fall of my senior year, I had a huge crush on a girl named Alexis. She was in an engineering class the same time I was studying architecture. The two classes were taught by the same teacher in a shared classroom. The kid who previously harassed my best friend was enrolled engineering with Alexis. She often came by my desk to talk when there was downtime. I was one of the few guys that was nice to her, most of the others shunned her on the belief that girls didn't belong in in tech classes. One day, while she was at my desk, the kid walked by. He didn't say anything, but Alexis cringed. I asked her what was wrong and she explained how that boy was a creep. He wouldn't leave her alone, frequently made lewd or demeaning comments, failed attempts to flirt with her, and often followed her to her next class. I let her know I would take care of it.

After class, the kid walked out the door next to Alexis and tried talking to her. Before he could follow her further, I ran beside of him, placed my arm around his shoulder, and steered him a different direction. I told him I really liked that girl and gave him the same instruction as before: leave her alone, don't call her, don't talk to her, don't look at her. He took me seriously and the next day in class, he avoided both of us. A week later, Alexis told me she doesn't know what I did but she was grateful.

Months, he showed up at a youth group event, invited by Kay, one of the girls I'd known since kindergarten. It was at church, so I took a softer approach. I let him know I was glad he was there and hoped he would stick around. I said I'd known Kay for a very long time and that I cared about her. I told him it was OK if the two of them dated with one big caveat: "Don't even think about hurting her." That was the last I saw him for a long time.

Two years after high school, I moved to Boise and completely forgot about the kid who made my friends feel violated. In the summer of 2001, I took a road trip with some friends to see the Poor Old Lu reunion concert in Seattle. While back in my home town for a couple days, we stopped by Safeway to pick up snacks. In the chips isle, a stranger walked around the corner. It took me a second before I recognized him. It was that jerk, the creeper, four years older than the last time I had seen him. As soon as he recognized me, he panicked. I saw his bottom lip quiver for a second before he turned around and ran away. He dropped his shopping basket as he left, abandoning whatever he was shopping for.

It was the first time I could remember anyone fearing me. At the time, I wasn't anyone to be afraid of - a short skinny wimp whose friends were all cooler and tougher than me. But this kid was genuinely terrified. Perhaps it wasn't me that frightened him - instead it was what I represented that scared him. I think he was a sketchy dude who knew the way he treated women was wrong and he was petrified I would hold him accountable for his actions. See, guys like him, abusers and assaulters, they don't want to answer for their deeds. Today, in a world where more women are speaking up and speaking out against people who hurt them, these are the men who believe "it's a scary time for young men in America." They believe it because they have reason to be afraid.

I'm glad my little sister spoke up when she did and that Alexis felt safe enough around me to say something. Sure, they disclosed the facts of their assailant to me, but I know they never involved the police or school administration. I have no idea if they ever told their parents about the creepy kid at school who was stalking and harassing them. But they did tell me, and I believed them. If that kid (now in his 30s) ever ran for political office, I'm sure multiple girls from his past would oppose him. They would shine a spotlight on the traumas they experienced because of him. They would do everything they could to prevent him from holding any position to govern others. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone currently leading our nation would believe them.

That makes me sad.

Where I've Been: the Sights Camping @ Two Rivers