A Writer’s Justice

In June of 1999, prolific author Stephen King was out for his daily four mile walk when he was struck by a drunk driver. The horrific impact flung King fourteen feet through the air and deposited King’s bloody glasses in the front passenger seat of the drunk guy’s vehicle. King spent three weeks in the hospital with a gashed head, punctured lungs, and breaks or fractures in his ribs, pelvis, hip, and thigh. He endured multiple operations then attended physical therapy that lasted longer than the hospitalization. Considering the circumstances, King is lucky to be alive.

The driver pleaded to a lesser charge allowing him to walk away with a figurative slap on the wrist, despite a lengthy rap sheet of eleven prior convictions for driving under the influence. No jail time. A suspended, but not revoked driver’s license.

Most of us would be furious if we were in King’s position. Hit and nearly killed by a habitual drunk who should not have been driving, unable to work and do the thing you love for several weeks, only to watch the cause of your pain and agony let off easy. King was mad, but most of his ire was reserved for the prosecutors who allowed this miscarriage of justice to happen. As for the man who almost took his life, King was mostly cordial. In a Dateline interview five months after the accident, King said “There isn't really anything that he's got that I want except his license.” A year later the driver passed away from a painkiller overdose. Even then, King’s kindness continued. King called his death untimely and said “Our lives came together in a strange way. I'm grateful I didn't die. I'm sorry he's gone.”

Stephen King is a master of the English language. On this earthly realm, he is possibly more gracious and considerate than I would be if such a tragedy had happened to me. The fictional world is a different story; there King is absolutely savage.

image courtesy of Get Literary

King began writing the Dark Tower series early in his career. The first book was published in 1982 and the most recent release came out in 2012. Not only did King create a continuous story spanning multiple books, he also weaved in characters and settings from several of his other works, forming a shared universe connecting all of King’s fictional bibliography. In the final chronological book in the Dark Tower series, King added a new character, a hapless servant of the Crimson King – the main antagonist through all of the books. King named him Bryan after the man who pulverized him five years earlier. The fictional version of the real life Bryan was more reckless and portrayed to be dimwitted. The character Bryan is distracted by a dog while driving and kills one of the story’s protagonists, just like the real Bryan was distracted by a dog when he ran into Stephen King.

However, The Dark Tower isn’t the only fictional depiction of Bryan Smith. In 2004, Steven King created a TV series called Kingdom Hospital. The main character of the story is hit by a van driven by a person distracted by their dog. However, King made this character mirror the real life inspiration even more. The driver is seen later in the series taking pills from an unmarked bottle, referencing the real Bryan’s overdose death.

This is justice for a writer. There is a general rule with writers: don’t make them mad. If you get on their wrong side, they will turn you into a villain in their next book, or give a character based on you a gruesome death.

found on Pinterest

This is the way our brain works. Instead of allowing our grievances to become a memory between the two of us, the harm you caused becomes immortalized on paper to be published, republished, and read by our fans. Instead of your wrongs fading into obscurity, it becomes entertainment for millions. It might be vindictive, yet it is also poetic. For many writers, this literary form of revenge is cathartic. It allows us to process our grief and anger without lashing out. When justice isn’t carried out in court, our words might be the only justice served.

There’s another kind of justice, a reverse vendetta. I don’t know if there’s an actual term for it so I’ll just call it redneck justice. In redneck justice, the wrongdoer seeks vengeance against bystanders when caught committing heinous acts. They harass the person or people who reported their crime in hopes to intimidate them. Redneck justice is used get away with their misdeeds by bullying those who impede their ways, silence their accusers, and continue their nefarious life free from the penalty of consequence or accountability. Redneck justice is a violent avoidance of true justice.

Recent events reminded me of this story from the life of Stephen King. I pondered writers’ habits of basing villainous characters on their real-world abusers and make readers vicariously experience the pain we endured so they might root for our heroes and heroines. As I find myself on the brunt end of redneck justice, I feel more empowered than ever because I’m a writer. The timing of unfortunate happenings is convenient as I am working on my first fantasy novel and my book needed a second villain. While the details of the perpetrator of redneck justice will (for now) remain private, my book now has a secondary antagonist. Even if the courts fail, I will have my writer’s justice.

In a Rush?

Floating in Heaven or roasting in Hell? I don’t know and the actual answer doesn’t matter to me. All I know is deciding a person’s eternal destination is above my pay grade. I’m not the judge of humankind, which is probably a good thing because if I was, Hell would be forced to hang up a “no vacancy” sign. Honestly, I tend to be far more judgmental than I have any right to be. It’s a character flaw.

As critical as I can be for the living, I aim to be more generous of the recently departed. Not everyone shares my strategy. When RBG passed away last fall, Cd’A area pastor Paul Van Noy made a public statement claiming she’s wicked and should not be celebrated as a national hero. This week, I saw similar sentiments from the opposite end of the political spectrum in response to the death of Rush Limbaugh. It seems the people who were fans of one reviled the other.

This is where the cynical jerk who typically holds a tight grip on the steering wheel in my brain eases off the gas pedal and consults the atlas to navigate these scenarios. When half my twitter feed claims heaven gained a new angel, and the other half partied like a grim reaper welcoming Hell’s newest resident, my centrist nature ran a cost-benefit analysis between being a saint and an asshole. I found myself straddling the fence.

I don’t know what Rush truly thought about God, but I know what I believe God thought about Rush. I believe God loved him like God loves every other person on Earth. I also know Rush professed to share my religious faith. Yet, when I listened to him I did not hear the same Christian morals which guide my values. Did Rush satisfy the biblical principle affording salvation to anyone who believes in their heart and professes with their mouth? I can’t answer that. I heard his words but I couldn’t see his heart. Again, such power is above my pay grade.

All I’m left with are mixed biblical commands and wise secular advice. My religion says to avoid stuff like bitterness, wrath, anger, and malice. My bible also instructs me not to speak evil and show perfect courtesy. Social norms tell us to not speak ill of the dead. Edmund Burke once advised, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

How do we balance it all? Rush was a professional provocateur who earned millions pissing off others – either pissed at him or pissed at the people he didn’t like. He normalized misogyny, bigotry, and homophobia. He turned spite into a righteous cause. He revolutionized the American political landscape from the comforts of a radio production booth. As much as he was beloved by conservatives, he was also perceived as evil by liberals.

What am I to do as someone who believes that we should let go of anger when speaking of someone who taught us it’s OK to be angry? How do we recognize someone’s death might end the abuse of others? Is not speaking ill of an evil dead allowing evil to thrive by doing nothing? Should we criticize or honor, celebrate or mourn?

Neither.

I refuse to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t have to revel in their death either. If the dead is an individual who harmed society, I believe there is a better option than saying nothing and doing nothing at all.

Which leads us back to Limbaugh.

Are you mad about Rush’s treatment of women? Did it bother you when he said feminism was created to give ugly women a chance, or claimed things started going downhill after women were granted the right to vote? Were you creeped out when he sexualized the way women walk or when he called a 12 year old girl a dog? Do you believe he contributed to rape culture by claiming consent was a tool of liberals, tried to explain how women really mean yes when they say no, or said women protesting sexual harassment actually wished they had been harassed? Did you cringe every time he called a woman a slut or a ho? Did you roll your eyes when he said women have easier lives than men?

Then donate clothes, food, or funds to a women’s shelter. Support the National Women’s Law Center. Volunteer with organizations that help women escaping domestic violence, human trafficking, prostitution, and pornography. Respect the women in your lives and treat them with dignity.

Are you offended by his treatment of the LGBT community? Were you annoyed by his sexual jokes mocking gay people? Are you mad about his slippery slope argument that legalizing gay marriage would lead to pedophilia? Did you think it was bad taste for him to ridicule AIDS victims while circus music played in the background during his AIDS Update segment?

Then locate and support a local Gay Straight Alliance club. Donate to charities and support groups like The Trevor Project or It Gets Better Project. Spend time with your queer friends and listen to their coming out stories; if you don’t have any LGBT friends, make some.

Did his views on race anger you? Were you dumbfounded when he said all police sketches of criminal suspects look like Jesse Jackson? When he played a song called “Barak the Magic Negro” on his radio show, were you enraged? Did you argue with his claim there are more Native Americans alive today than any time in history or that Columbus saved us from the Natives? Do you think he was wrong to say “who the hell cares” about black voters because they’re a minority of the voting populace? Were you mad when he said the NBA should change their name to the Thug Basketball Association and sport teams should be called gangs?

Then shop at black owned businesses. Attend events organized by your local chapter of the NAACP. Listen to and learn from black voices. Support criminal justice reform measures and other legislation that aims to end racial inequity. Donate to charities dedicated to improving African American communities like the Thurgood Marshall College Fund, Black Girls CODE, or Campaign Zero.

Were you enraged by his treatment of disabilities, drugs, and health? Did you want to defend Michael J Fox when Rush claimed he was exaggerating the symptoms of Parkinson’s disease? Did you yell at your radio when he said nicotine wasn’t addictive and smoking doesn’t cause lung cancer? Were you puzzled when he claimed fitness enthusiasts were taxing our health care system?

Then join a gym, exercise more, and eat a healthier diet. If you’re a smoker, quit smoking. If you’re struggling with addiction, seek help. Support, volunteer, and donate to organizations like The Michael J Fox Foundation, St Jude, American Cancer Society, American Heart Association, Truth, or To Write Love on Her Arms.

I will not celebrate Rush’s death, nor will I speak ill of the dead. However, I will celebrate the people the dead spoke ill of while he was still alive.

Like Orion on a Cloudy Night

It was a stressful day. Which is weird because it should not have been so burdened by stress. The morning started like any other Sunday: Joylyn and Annie helped me complete barn chores before we all went out to breakfast as a family at our favorite little greasy dive in Rathrum. Later in the day, Annie went out for a horseback ride with one of her friends while I relaxed and played video games. I spent some time cleaning in the kitchen while Annie prepped the dining room table for a crafting project. Then we went on some errands to get wood stain and groceries. The day ended after a walk with our Mastiff at the dog park, more housework, and bedtime barn chores.

No dire emergencies. No kids arguing. No mishaps. No perceivable cause for frustration. Still, while we were on the freeway between home and Winco my brain declared battle against itself, like there was a civil war waging between my prefrontal cortex and my amygdala. From the coattails of a relaxing Sunday, I was suddenly and inexplicably overwhelmed by anxiety. My shoulders tightened, my chest was constricted, and my breathing grew shallow. Thoughts of impending dread and inevitable failure flooded over me.

There was no logical reason for me to feel the way I felt. Even in the moment I knew there was no validity behind my anxiety. It was what it was. I knew my emotional paralysis was devoid of substance yet I was powerless to avoid it. I felt better the next morning, ready to tackle a new work week and carry on as if I hadn’t been plagued by self sabotage less than 24 hours prior. But Sunday night, for causes beyond my capability to describe or understand, was rough. Sometimes it’s hard to get out of my own head.

After we returned home, and when the worst of the anxiety faded, I walked out of the house to retrieve groceries from the trunk. I briefly looked up and noticed a small break in the clouds perfectly framing the constellation Orion. The belt was shining bright. A few years of living on the farm has made those three stars the easiest for me to identify among the abundance of distant suns populating our night sky. I stood still for a moment and traced the outline of Orion up to the club and shield then down to the hem of his garment. I marveled at the unique position of my geographical location. The constellation was perfectly framed by cloud cover - grey masses above and below it, and to both sides. The overcast sky obscured all other constellations visible in early February.

I removed a few grocery bags from the trunk, closed it and looked up once more before going inside. In the time it took me to gather our purchases, the clouds shifted, blown by currents of wind. The only stars still visible were Zeta, Epsilon, and Delta – Orion’s Belt. A few seconds later and those stars also disappeared behind the overcast weather.

A couple hours later, I ventured outside once more to feed our animals and refill their water troughs. At the barn, my eyes wandered toward space again and the clouds populating the inland northwest earlier in the day had dissipated, pushed further east by the jet stream, revealing the clear and beautiful expanse of endless galaxies above us. Orion the hunter still stood proud above me, joined by his neighbors Cassiopeia and Pisces.

Orion is there somewhere

In a short span of time, Orion was the only constellation to be seen, vanished, then reappeared joined by dozens of visible constellations. Time and meteorological changes in the atmosphere alter the way we see the stars. Yet the shifts and adjustments in astronomy move slower. Night after night, Orion is still Orion. Mars and Jupiter move into and out of our night sky in long lethargic arcs. The moon cycles through its phases from full to new and back again every 29 and a half days, the subtle change barely perceptible from one night to the next.

As I pondered these quick adjustments in weather and its effect on our perception of the longer lasting existence of astronomical phenomena, I realized my struggles with depression and anxiety were much the same. My emotional state is often like the clouds, moved by circumstance and unseen forces. My melancholic disposition sways between bitter and sweet, often lingering where the two are blended. There are times my anxiety completely blurs my grandeur, other times it breaks long enough to observe glimmers of greatness. Then there are days where depression breaks and I feel as if I can shine. Regardless of how I feel from one moment to the next, I’m still me. I possess the same hopes and fears while overcome with anxiety as I do when serotonin and dopamine levels in my brain are stable. Moods come and go like the weather but my goals and beliefs remain, only to be changed through slow progression.

When I am feeling down, I know that feelings are only temporary. Anxiety comes, but it also goes. Happiness exists on the other side of these temporal adjustments. This concept isn’t an easy one to explain to someone who doesn’t struggle with depression and anxiety. If you want to better understand what it’s like to be me, just watch the stars on a partially cloudy night. Perhaps you could learn something from Orion.

The Idea

It started with an idea.

My oldest son’s favorite game is D&D, both as a player and a creator. He is often asking to DM a campaign for the whole family. He listens to podcasts and watches videos filled with tips and lore. His world rotates around school, homework, chores, and D&D. I sometimes wonder if thoughts of gaming occupy his mind at school and while he’s supposed to be completing assignments or folding laundry.

While we were all quarantined for Covid in December, he demanded a moment to talk about an idea he had for D&D. Normally, these requests involve his plans for upcoming campaigns or a world he’s designing. This time was different.

“Dad,” he said, “I want to make a D&D character who has autism. I know autism didn’t exist in the dark ages, but I want to explore what it would be like for a person on the spectrum in a medieval fantasy world.” We discussed the possibilities of what could happen, how such a character would react to the sights and sounds of a pre-industrialized feudal society. As we spoke, he grew more excited – feeling as if this was a real thing, giving bones and flesh to a figment of his imagination.

Then I had a revelation.

“You know,” I said, “This would make a good story.”
“I know, that’s why I want to use this character in a campaign.”
“No, no, no. Not a good D&D story. I mean, it’s that too but not what I’m talking about. When I say it would be a good story, I mean like an actual novel kind of story. Words on paper, printed and reprinted, sold in bookstores kind of story.”
“Oh, that.”

Then he changed the topic, reverting back to his plans of D&D campaigns but I wasn’t listening. The creative gears inside my brain where spinning like they got a fresh coat of WD-40. While Christian’s voice filled the room with all of the things he wants to do in a game, my mind was occupied with thoughts of what could happen in a book. I fell asleep pondering extra characters, sidekicks, and villains. I gave my thoughts freedom to wander through the geography of where such characters would live, queried what conflict would drive the characters to do what they do.

By the time I went to bed the next night, I had a rough idea of a plot from start to finish. I had a bare description of the main character, the party that will accompany him on his quest, and the enemy he hopes to defeat. The day after that, I pulled Christian aside while throwing hay and told him everything I had been thinking about. The inspiration for the book came from him so I wanted his blessing, permission to use his sliver of a plan to create something bigger.

His response: “Dude, you need to write this book.”

So I am. What, but what? Am I not already writing a book? Yes, it can wait though. I have several ideas for books, all non-fiction inspirational/motivational type stuff. I intend to complete them eventually. Why switch to something new? Because this is different.

I’ve previously balked at the idea of writing fiction. There were a variety of excuses preventing me from even trying. I convinced myself I couldn’t do it because I wasn’t good at it. I believed it would be better to stick within the safety of what I knew I could do well – essays about faith, parenting, politics, and geekery. Writing novels was something for others people, more talented writers. I believed these lies until Christian approached me with the idea of an autistic person in a medieval realm filled with fantasy and magic.

This is now a story I can’t not write. The other book I was working on can wait because it’s only something I wanted to do. This work of fiction is something I need to do. There is a difference. I’m now more motivated and determined to write a book than I ever have before.

Christian and Annie frequently ask me if I’ve worked on the book, helping to keep me on track. It’s a slow process considering I still have a full time job and live on a farm filled with animals who need fed twice a day. But I keep going. First was a world map in the tradition of Narnia from CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Then research. Then the preparation employing Evernote to keep track of random ideas, Word to complete character profiles, and (because I’m a nerd) drafting the plot outline in Excel.

Last night I found myself doing something I haven’t done in years: sitting in a coffee shop with my laptop. Writing. And it all started with an idea.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Almost a month into 2021. Are we ready to remember last year? I know it sucked for almost everyone on earth but it can’t be all bad. While I pity the future history teachers who will have to explain the events of 2020 to kids not yet born, we need to remember the treasures in what was demonstrably a dumpster fire of the year. To do so, my first post of the new year is looking back at what I believe to be the best of the worst year I’ve ever experienced.

found on Reddit

Starting with my Top 10 movies from 2020. Since moving to the farm, I haven’t been able to get to the theaters as much as I used to. In 2020, theaters closed and everyone felt the same unrequited yearning for the true movie experience. However, being home all the time gave me more time to watch one of my favorite mediums. There’s a lot of 2020 movies I’ve not yet had the chance to see, but these were (in no particular order) my favorite films from the year.

Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga
Hamilton
Enola Holmes
Guns Akimbo
Soul
My Spy
The Platform
Onward
Project Power
Coffee & Kareem

Not a lot of new music came out last year. Or at least, not a lot wowed me in any way. Some big name artists even pushed back planned releases because of Covid. However, even in the dearth of musical debuts and massive singles, there were songs that still worked their way into my consciousness and remained there. These are my five favorite songs of 2020, also in no particular order.

Pigeon John - The Greatest
Twenty One Pilots - Level of Concern
Blue October - Oh My My
Eels - Are We Alright Again
LANY - If This is the Last Time

Being home all the time gave me more time to watch movies. But it also gave me more time to read. However, much of what I read were older books. So here are my top four books from 2020 plus one from 2019 that I read this last year. Two fiction, three non-fiction.

Mike McHargue - You’re a Miracle and a Pain in the Ass
Carlos Whitaker - Enter Wild
Max Brooks - Devolution
Stephen King - If It Bleeds
Ibram X. Kendi - How to Be Antiracist

Enough about what kept me entertained. What about what kept you entertained. Here are my five most frequently read blog posts of 2020, and these are in order with the most popular first.

Bragging Rights 
Tortured 
Pay Up 
The Spring of Babies 
Tour de Bux 

However, not all of my favorite posts are particularly popular. Sometimes, I write things I’m eager to share then no one seems to notice when I do. Regardless of total views, I am most proud of these five posts.

Protect Ya Neck: Sanity in the Age of Social Media 
Geeks Will Save the World 
Rise of the Sidekicks 
All Other Ground 
What Does Love Require 

Our farm’s population is always in flux. The population of our chickens and duck ebb and flow with hatchlings and death. Geese and turkeys come and go. We breed the goats in the fall and sell their kids in the spring. We find stray kittens in the barn and re-home them after getting them spayed or neutered. We are ground zero for the circle of life. We also bring in animals who become permanent residents of our circus. Three of them have become my favorite animals on our property. A with apologies to all our our pre-existing furry and feathered friends, these are the three best additions to our farm.

Edgar the Mastiff

Wasabi the Emu

Hank the Donkey

Now for the absolute best thing about 2020? We had one more addition to the family in 2020. She was a surprise we didn’t think was possible. Violet has made our world even brighter than it was before and she seems to bring out the best in her older siblings.

Annie and I inadvertently scheduled our annual camping trip for the same weekend we originally planned on getting married. Our venue canceled because of insurance issues. Then we found out Annie was pregnant. Then Covid happened and the world got put on hold. Wedding plans got delayed until further notice. Instead of getting married on the beach, we went hiking on the beach. Instead of a bed-and-breakfast, we slept in a tent. It was the best option we could come up with for a socially distanced family vacation. Instead of a destination wedding with about 50 friends and family members, we Took our family of seven camping 50 miles north of our previous plans. While there, we went hiking in the Hoh Rain Forest. This is where I experienced my most surreal moment of 2020. Along the Hall of Mosses Trail, I took some snapshots of the kids. Looking at those pictures now, I am confronted with the reality of 2020 and the weirdness of being surrounded by unparalleled natural beauty in the midst of a pandemic. Our existence on earth is a clash between the ancient and the modern, a truth most evident in photos like these.

Finally, a few of your favorite things. On New Years Eve, I asked my Facebook friends to share their favorite part of 2020. Here is a summary of the most inspiring responses.

While Annie and I (along with countless other couples) canceled their 2020 nuptials, love endured and some people found a way to get married in the midst of a pandemic. I know because my friend Syafiq DJ’d for a couple fun receptions. My friend Nate officiated what he called a beautiful wedding. And my friend Heather married the love of her life.
My cousin Allen reconnected with his dad (who travels a lot) in Miami to watch the Super Bowl. He grew up in Kansas City so the Chiefs are his favorite team. Spending time with his dad and watching his favorite team is a memory worth holding dear.
And he wasn’t the only one to reconnect with family. My Aunt Kim made a trip to Portland to spend time with her kids, my friend Julie’s son came home, and a distant cousin of mine reached out to her extended family (which included me).
Other friends focused on their home, like Natasha who remodeled her kitchen and Tiffany and her husband who put a down payment on their first home.
My best friend from high school graduated with her BSW, an old family friend watched her granddaughter graduate high school, and my cousins decided to permanently home school their kids.
Then there is my friend Jennifer who got her first tattoo. The story behind it is beautiful but it’s her story to tell, not mine.

courtesy Jennifer Nixon

What It’s Like to Be Me: All Falls Apart Pt 8, Coping Mechanisms

We all know the childhood proverb, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I prefer the grown up version of the same saying: what doesn’t kill you gives you a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms and a really dark sense of humor.

Divorce didn’t kill me and it did give me a dark sense of humor. Music has always been my coping mechanisms. Healthy or not, I’ve found solace in song. Coping with divorce wasn’t any different than any other challenge in my life. These songs didn’t just help me cope, they explain how I coped.

Sometime Sunday: “Home”
Mikee Bridges sings of two homes in this lament, not knowing a physical home while looking forward to a spiritual home. Regardless of where I’ve lived, I never really felt like it was home. Losing the house I bought in the divorce and being forced into a small apartment reinforced the unanchored feeling of this song, “Home is a place I’ve never been.” Yet I shared Mikee’s hope in something more, “I’ll hold on to Sunday, a first time to come home.”

Pearl Jam: “In Hiding”
I didn’t leave the apartment much, spent my time watching movies, paying video games, or writing. I did like the song said, “I shut and locked the front door, no way in or out, I turned and walked the hallways and pulled the curtains down.” Church on Friday nights and Sunday mornings. A small group meeting on Monday nights. Work five days a week. But if there was nowhere I needed to be, I was in hiding.

Matchbox Twenty: “Unwell”
Symptoms of narcissistic abuse are varied and I didn’t experience all of them. However, I did suffer from insomnia, fatigue, depression, and anxiety. Other symptoms get weird: inability to trust yourself or others, feelings of isolation, difficulty making decisions. Narcissistic abuse makes you think you’re crazy. It’s a sensation described in this song, “I can hear them whisper, and it makes me think there must be something wrong with me, out of all the hours thinking somehow I've lost my mind”

Macklemore & Ryan Lewis with XPerience: “Let’s Eat”
If I had one truly unhealthy coping mechanism, it was food. Comfort food. Fast food. Stress eating. Boredom eating. Social eating. Workplace potlucks. Whatever weight I lost when Bekah and I first separated, I gained it back after the divorce plus some. I know exactly what Macklemore is talking about when he raps, “I was gonna get skinny for the summer, I was gonna start doing my crunches, but looking down at my stomach, I'mma go to the beach, but I'm not taking my shirt off in public.” My craving for something spicy for lunch after church on Sundays every week worked against the efforts I made to get skinny again. Then again, “You know I feel good about this cake” can only be a viable way to cope for so long. My post-divorce body got to be the heaviest I’ve ever been.

Sick Puppies: “White Balloons”
After a lifetime struggling with insecurity, divorce practically confirmed by biggest fear: I was insignificant. As a newly single man, and a single dad, I felt like a ghost – unseen and misunderstood. I heard my state of mind echoed in this song, “What’s inside of me is invisible to most even in clear view.” In my ghostly phase, there was a lot of change as I rediscovered/redefined who I was.

Of Monsters and Men: “I of the Storm”
Another song speaking about feeling like a ghost, this one didn’t just address my inner turmoil, it described my appearance. “Until all you'll see is my ghost, empty vessel, crooked teeth.” There was a loneliness as I coped with grief, I was out of place and ungrounded. “I am a stranger, I am an alien inside a structure.” I had my kids and I had my job but aside from those two things, I felt lost and defeated.

The official Heartsong ornaments 2020

Every December when I was younger, my mom created handmade Christmas ornaments for my brother and me. Her plan was to provide us with ornaments of our own to use when we were older. She had a theory: when we moved out of her house to start life on our own we would have at least 18 Christmas ornaments to decorate the Christmas tree we get four ourseves. It wasn’t just Aaron and me either. She made these ornaments for all of the Budd family cousins too.

Annie also indulges in this crafting tradition. She started making ornaments with Joylyn when it was only the two of them together. Now, with our families blended together, the holiday crafts continue.

There is a difference though. When I was a kid, Aaron and I just let mom do her thing. These days, the ornaments are a family affair. The kids help brainstorm ideas and often handle sharpies and hot glue guns to assemble and decorate the family ornaments we give as gifts to our closest friends and family.

It was tempting to aim for funny this year. The thematic possibilities for 2020 were endless. We even googled in search of toilet paper roll and murder bee shaped confetti. We looked for miniature medical masks to place inside a plastic globe. We pondered the viability of using dollar store sized bottles of hand sanitizer.

After much contemplation, a decision was made to avoid the year in review approach to ornament making. No references to the pandemic, social distancing, the election, Netflix binging, conference calls, extreme weather, or apocalyptic animals.

We realize 2020 has been a weird year. This was the year that real life imitated something halfway in between Maury Povich and the twilight zone. It started with a tiger king refusing to accept reality and is ending with an American president who refuses to accept reality. In between those two cultural mileposts, we’ve seen mask orders and anti-mask rallies. We got professional sports played in empty arenas and super-spreader parties held in NYC, DC, and LA. New generations of video game consoles were released with near life-like graphics yet the most popuar game in America is a cartoony contest about armless spacesuit wearing little people trying to catch a murderous imposter while fixing their spaceship. Graduations were observed on zoom, vacations were cancelled, theaters were closed, and everyone had to figure out how to live life six feet apart.

This world has enough crazy, we didn’t need to add to it. We ached for something normal. Nothing could be more normal for us than this.

Inside a plastic mason jar, you’ll find feathers and snow. Well, artificial snow but the feathers are real - mostly from our chickens and ducks with a few from our turkey, Uno.

While we love our horses, the birds are the heartbeat of Heartsong Meadow. Annie had a pair of Chinese geese when she moved to the farm. Elvis, a black silkie, was one of the first three chickens we got and is the OG of our farm animals. Ruby and Stanley are long time fowl residents. Wasabi the emu is one of our newest feathered friends and he’s quickly become a favorite part of our world. This farm wouldn’t be what it is without the birds.

They greet us every morning. We’ve hatched several, both naturally and artificially, raising some ducks and chickens from tiny lil ducklings and chicks. Joylyn collects eggs and sells them. Chloe has trained a few chickens to jump on her and perch on her shoulder. Annie and I even rescued a dozen abused birds while on the way to a Valentine’s Day date. Now everyone wants to pet and hug the emu.

When it came time to design this year’s ornaments, it made sense to do something with the feathers. In a year as weird and wild as 2020, the birds kept us grounded.

We all took turns collecting feathers, searching for the cleanest and most intact plumage we could find. The birds blow feathers frequently enough that we could have made 100 ornaments. However, we only made 19.

If you receive one of the Heartsong ornaments, we are sharing with you a piece of our hearts. The fake snow has been added because we’re always dreaming of a white Christmas.

Maybe next year we’ll do something funny.

What It’s Like to Be Me: All Falls Apart Pt 7, The Fallout

I never wanted to get divorced. However, after everything was said and done, I’ve realized divorce was the best gift Bekah ever gave me. It sucked in the moment but led to something better.

In the end, I’m happier and healthier now than I ever was when we were together. It took a while for me to fully understand this gift though. The fallout from her original filing was devastating. These songs represent my emotional state in immediate aftermath of becoming a new divorcee.

Lifehouse: “Sick Cycle Carousel”
Grief pairs well with shame. My gut level reaction reflected in these opening lyrics, “If shame had a face I think it would kind of look like mine.” While this song met my emotional state, it also provided the advice I needed to move on, “Keep spinning around, I know that it won't stop ‘til I step down from this for good.”

Mumford & Sons: “Little Lion Man”
The vulgarity of this song’s chorus is a punch to my gut. “I really fucked it up this time, didn’t I my dear?” My good sensible Christian inner-child blushes at the frequent f-bombs, yet I can’t help but recognize the raw emotion as my own. When Bekah said she wanted a divorce, she told me I had done unforgivable things, although she’s never disclosed what those things are. With such an accusation, how could I not feel like I was the one who fucked things up?

Rob Thomas: “This Is How a Heart Breaks”
Rob spices his tale of heartbreak with manic energy and a relentless pace. Words like “Life is like a mean machine it made a mess out of me” would normally feel laden with sorrow but this song is so eager it doesn’t give you much room to contemplate the weight of the lyrics. Similarly, the frantic pace of life didn’t give me much time to ponder my existence post-divorce. I could feel the brutal sadness of what was happening inside me but didn’t have the time to process it. I felt like I was out of breath all the time while singing like “this is it now, everybody get down, this is all I can take, this is how a heart breaks.

The Prayer Chain: “Grylliade”
Eric Campuzano, The Prayer Chain’s primary lyricist captured my emotional state better than I ever could have on my own. “You've pushed me all around, and now I've had my fill there's nothing left for me to say.” Yeah, I knew how that felt. “I feel like the grylliade, two inches tall or nothing at all.” Been there too. Word for word, no other song explains my attitude after my marriage ended better than this.

Everclear: “Wonderful”
Art Alexakis grew up as the son of divorced parents. When he and his ex-wife split, he wrote this song for his daughter, sharing his experience with hers. “Promises mean everything when you're little and the world is so big, I just don't understand how you can smile with all those tears in your eyes.” I don’t have the ability to feel the way my kids feel, so this song helps me see things from their perspective, “I don't want to hear you say that I will understand someday.”

Staind: “Home”
For every cause, there is an effect. In this song, Aaron Lewis sings of the effect first, “Today just fell apart like everything, right in my face,” before explaining the cause, “I try so hard to be, everything that I should never take away from you again.” And that’s what it was for me for a long time, trying to be everything just to see it fall apart.

Breathe Carolina: “Shots Fired”
If divorce is war, I was outgunned and under siege. I was constantly protecting myself or playing retreat. “You said some things that you can't take back. I know where it's going when you look like that. You can see what you started, and you still want more. You sure you want a war? Shots fired.” Even after the end, I still lived in a defensive mode.

Buckcherry: “Sorry”
Josh Todd penned this tale of blame and regret with the desire stay together. I didn’t share his desire for unity, but I understood how he internalized the guilt. I found solace in his lyrics, “This time, I think I'm to blame. It's harder to get through the days. You get older and blame turns to shame. Cause everything inside, it never comes out right.”

Hoobastank: “Good Enough”
The last words she told me before leaving haunted me. It's an expected reaction when you’re told your best will never be good enough, especially if you (like me) spent a lifetime fearing insignificance. Hearing this song was a reminder I wasn’t alone. “Still after all I gave it's not enough for you. Well, I can't give any more.” I’m not the only one.

The Fray: “Heartless”
This was a Kanye song, then The Fray made it more earnest and turned it into something you might hear played in a coffee shop. There’s a little extra heartbreak when they sing, “Somewhere far along this road he lost his soul to a woman so heartless.” While I tended to my emotional wounds, I found one of the most supportive groups of friends I’ve ever had. When this song comes on, there’s a line I sing along with conviction because of the truth behind it: “You got a new friend, I got homies.”

American Irony

The Christmas story begins with a young girl, pregnant and not yet married. Her fiancé is looking for an out because she’s bearing another dude’s baby. He loves her but understands the scandal of raising a bastard child. People in their small town talk in whispers; rumors spread faster than urgent news. So the teen mom leaves home and visits a distant relative and stays with her for a few months while the gossip back home dies down. She and her fiancé soon marry but they do so quietly, avoiding the big celebration they had originally planned. The baby is born in the most unglamorous setting to be raised by his stepfather.

Can you imagine the mix of emotions Mary feels? She’s been looking forward to her wedding, but she never imagined it would be like this. Excited to be a mother, but this isn’t what she had panned. She barely gave consent, but how could she have said no to an angel considering the circumstances. How do you even raise the son of God? Most new parents are worried about the mistakes they’ll make. The pressure Mary felt to succeed would have been unbearable, especially for someone so young.

Fast forward a couple millennia. Imagine how the modern American evangelical would treat someone in the same situation: a pregnant teenager, she’s got a boyfriend but the baby isn’t his. How welcoming would the church be? In my experience, Christians have not always been as loving as we should be.

I’ve seen churches turn away rape victims for their indiscretions. I’ve seen pastors blame women for the violence committed against them. Purity culture told women they deserved it because of their immodest fashion choices, and that’s if their claims are even believed. Too many Christian folk are quick to doubt women who make accusations of rape, assault, and harassment – especially if the perpetrator was a member of the church staff, a pastor, an elder, or a deacon.

In my experience, teen moms have struggled to find safe haven in churches. I’ve seen pastors call children of single moms a consequence of their sin. I’ve seen girls removed from volunteer positions in church because they got pregnant out of wedlock. I’ve sat through Sunday school lessons and youth group devotionals demanding abstinence, and watched as youth leaders ignore the needs of kids who didn’t follow their advice. Too often, pregnant teens and single moms are either an object of scorn or of pity inside American churches.

I’ve heard slanderous labels like slut and whore lobbied at girls who became pregnant at young ages while the boys involved in making those babies never endure the same level or ridicule and rarely face any consequences. While never spoken out loud, the attitude I’ve observed in most churches is “boys will be boys and girls should know better.”

This is the irony of Christmas in America: we reject those made in the image of the One we believe breathed life into our entire universe. We mock the single pregnant teenager while worshiping the offspring of another single pregnant teenager. We alienate heroes raising illegitimate kids while our savior was the step-son of a humble carpenter.

Our nation is imprisoning immigrants and refugees on the southern border at unprecedented rates, separating children from their parents, and caging them in dismal quarters. Of the people I hear applauding this inhumane immigration policy, most have claimed to be followers of Jesus. They forget how Joseph and Mary once fled to Egypt with Jesus, themselves becoming refugees in a foreign land.

Dear church, what the hell are we doing?

To affirm the beauty, strength, and resolve of the Christmas story, we must treat the young women in our community who suddenly find themselves alone on the threshold of motherhood with the same dignity and respect we bestow upon Mary, the mother of God. From the women bringing their babies across the Rio Grande to avoid the gang violence in Honduras, to the Muslim girl escaping war in Syria, to the teenager assaulted by the pastor’s son, to the college kid who wasn’t careful.

What if we loved these vulnerable young women the same way Jesus loved his mom? What if we validated their humanity and their fears with encouragement and acceptance? What if we told them “You are blessed and so is your child,” the same words Elizabeth spoke to Mary? Could we inspire an entire generation of mothers to sing like Mary?

Maybe then we could see God do what Mary promised: “He has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty.”

What a wonderful world it could be.

Amen and merry Christmas.

What It’s Like to Be Me: All Falls Apart Pt 6, Finality

Endings aren’t always the end. Sometimes, everything fades to black at that final moment as credits begin to roll. Other times, there is a mess to clean up after things are over. Some endings become new beginnings. And some stories demand an epilogue after the final chapter. For me, the end of my marriage was all of the above.

There was finality to it. When she said she was done, it was an irrevocable point of no return. I felt enveloped in darkness as if curtains just closed after the climactic scene of our tragic play. The end of my marriage was the start of a new and better life, but that was yet to be realized. In the moments and days and weeks and months after divorce, there was a mess to clean up. We had custody schedules and division of property to figure out. While our story was over, this was my epilogue.

Sevendust: “Separate”
It was a Sunday when she told me she wanted divorce. In a text message. While I was at church. I was a volunteer and had a few hours left to finish my duties before I could go home. Despite feeling devastated internally, I had to hold it together on the outside. But I fell apart as soon as I got home. I sat in darkness by the pantry door and asked God why it was happening. I prayed “help this make sense to me.” For a long time, that was the only thing I could think to pray so I repeated it over and over again until things did make sense. I find comfort hearing Lajon Witherspoon echoing my prayer in this song, “Help me, make this make sense to me.”

Papa Roach: “Leader of the Broken Hearts”
My predicament found me in a situation similar to Jacoby Shaddix’s lamenting song: “Here I am with nothing left to lose,” feeling like I walked off a battlefield burdened with grief and pain. There’s a weird balance with broken hearts; there is sorrow but there’s also relief. I survived. And as I came out of this broken marriage, I’ve found an ability to lead others with the same broken heart.

Andy Mineo and Co Campbell: “Still Bleeding”
As a writer, I am intimately aware of the power of words. This is the truth about language Andy raps about in this song, “so ironic how these phonics are made of frequency waves that can stir oceans of emotions and invoke them old things, I need composure just to compose them.” It often seems as if he wrote this song on my behalf, as I was still bleeding from the wounds of the words she said, that I’d never be good enough. He continued, “your words are so filthy, I don't even know the damage, God used words to create this planet so be careful with them.” But it wasn’t only Bekah’s words that were weaponized. I got text messages from her friends saying I was worthless and telling me I was a shitty dad. There were false accusations reported to the police. They mocked me online and harassed my new friends. It was relentless for a while. I get it when Andy says, “stick and stones may break some bones and some words scar forever, you’re hard forever, make it hard to get up.”

Alison Wonderland, Brave, & Lido: “Already Gone”
The first time I heard this song, my emotional state was described in the opening lyrics, “I've been nursing a broken heart, it took so long for me to adjust.” Completely cutting off contact wasn’t an option because we shared children. Every time I picked up the kids, it reopened old wounds. It took me a while to figure out how to exist on my own and be OK with the way things were but she didn’t make it easy for me. “Still you manipulate things, you already broke my heart, why make it so damn hard to move on?”

Staind: “Everything Changes”
Aaron Lewis opens this song with a hypothetical question: “If you just walked away, what could I really say?” This wasn’t a hypothetical for me, I had an answer: nothing. If one party wants a divorce, there is absolutely nothing the other party can do to stop it. In the eyes of the law, it takes two people to get married, but only one person to end the marriage. When Bekah walked away, there was nothing I could say. In that moment, I became what Lewis described, “I am the mess you chose, the closet you cannot close, the devil in you I suppose.” Everything changes. Marital status, living arrangements, financial stability, tax filings. Everything.

The (adjective) Elf on the (noun)

Hiding a little elf for kids to discover when they get out of bed each morning has become a favorite (and sometimes loathed) holiday tradition for many families. Santa’s mischievous spy has become an internet sensation as parents seek out increasingly creative ways to display their elves and avoid repeating the same thing over and over again. The inappropriate ideas posted in chat forums and on social media became a meme worthy of a notorious reputation for hilarious antics.

If you were to purchase the official Elf on the Shelf, you will get more than just a simple posable elfin doll, the box also includes a storybook to be read to children explaining the elf’s life and purpose. We have one of the Elf on the Shelf branded elves, Joylyn named it Elfy when she was three. Elfy has been a recurring element of our home every year from the day after Thanksgiving through Christmas Eve. Elfy came packaged with a storybook. However, not all elves have a backstory.

We recently added a second elf to our holiday routines. Annie and I hide one elf every night like we always have while the older kids take turns setting up the second elf for their younger sister to find the next morning. We didn’t buy a second Elf on the Shelf though; instead we got a craft store elf - similar in appearance yet distinct enough to avoid confusing the two mythical creatures. No storybook was included with the discount elf, just a doll in a box.

With no backstory for our new elf, we had to create our own. As a writer, this is something I could easily concoct on my own but that wouldn’t be fun. Wouldn’t it be better if the kids created his story? And what if they didn’t know they were making a story about an elf? For our second elf on a different elf, we did it Mad Libs style.



Now Joylyn is aware how Elfy and *checks notes* Chad know each other. With two elves, we have twice the opportunity for hijinks and shenanigans.

Need a story for your elf? Feel free to play along. Have your kids (or significant other) fill in the blanks for your own elfish story.

Hello, my name is (goofy Name). I am a (adjecive) elf from the (direction on a compass) pole. Elfy is my (adjective) friend. We met each other while playing a game of (something you play in PE), elves versus (animal plural). We won.

Santa asked us to (verb) you every day from now until (holiday). He has a (noun) to keep track of which kids are naughty and which kids are (adjective). If you want to be on the good list, make sure you (verb) your parents, and be (adjective) to your siblings, and do all of your home(noun plural) for school. Don't forget to clean up the (noun) you make after dinner and brush your (body part plural) every morning.

Look for me every (general time of day) to see what kind of (noun plural) we have while you sleep on your (piece of furniture). I might be (adjective) or I might be (adjective), but my goal is to make you (verb).

I will (verb) my final report to Santa on Christmas Eve. Only (adjective) kids will get the best presents under their Christmas (type of plant), bad kids will get a lump of (mineral). After Christmas, I must say (a different way of saying goodbye) and (verb) back home to Santa's (type of building). We are going to have the best Christmas ever!

Love, (same goofy name as before) the Elf

Enjoy. I would love to hear what epic stories you and your loved ones devise. Feel free to share. Or, like the elves do with Santa, report back on Christmas Eve.

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.