Jaci Dawn

I will be gone for the next couple weeks. Don will be on his own with Murphy.

I am packed and ready to go. Tomorrow morning, Harvey and I will pick up our two hitch-hikers: Chrystal and her beau, AJ. We will cruise across Oregon to La Grande, where we’ll stop to visit my mother-in-law and father-in-law (briefly) and then on down to Ontario, OR, where we’ll spend the night.

Friday morning, we’ll cross into Idaho where you can drive 75MPH but you have to pump your own gas. We won’t slow down (or have someone else pump gas for us) until we return to Oregon after the Elks have their memorial service on the 21st of May. I don’t mind the higher speed limits but I sure am going to miss having someone else pump gas for me! And trust me: it isn’t any cheaper to purchase gas in those self-serve states next to Oregon.

It will be an adventure for AJ: he’s never been out of the state of Oregon, except for maybe a jaunt into Vancouver, WA. It will be a journey of memories for Chrystal and I.

I’ll tell them of the days when it was a 2-lane highway through Caldwell and Nampa. Of the days when Nampa was a small town and didn’t flow into Boise non-stop. I’ll tell them stories of all those small towns between Ontario and Boise. I’ll take – as is my custom – the cut-off through Thousand Springs: Hagerman, Buhl, Filer – rather than drive into Twin Falls and cut back to US 93 South. I like the drive. Less traffic.

I will tell them how Jackpot used to be a couple mobile homes with hitches still attached and sickly cottonwood trees. Hopefully, we won’t have to stop in Jackpot except to use the rest area south of town. I’ll point out the peaks of the Jarbidge Mountains to the west.

In Wells, Chrystal will tell us about her friend who was a little boy when he was hit by a car and killed. It was the first funeral Chrystal ever went to. That was long before she came to live with me.

We’ll fly past the Ruby Marshes and Secret Pass to our west.

And through Currie. I had my first beer with my father in Currie. I was 18 and under-age in Nevada. I flew into Salt Lake City from college for Christmas vacation and took the bus to Wendover where Dad met me. We drove south on Highway 93 and stopped at the bar in Currie. In Nevada, if there is a wide spot on the road, it’s a bar. We sat at the bar and Dad ordered his drink. I ordered an Oly and waited for the bartender to ask for ID. But he knew Dad and he assumed I was 21. That was the best Oly ever.

There’s the Lages Junction where we’ll make a right-hand turn. The left-hand turn heads to Salt Lake City. I’ve never stopped at Lages (Loggee’s) Junction but in the winter of 1974 when I had the best Oly ever, they had a frozen cascade of water all decorated with lights. I think it was a sprinkler they left on so it would freeze solid in the bitter cold, then they laced the lights through the columns of water.

At some point, I will show the kids the road that leads out to Cherry Creek. Pat Nixon was born at Cherry Creek. I have a photographer friend (Arla Ruggles) who still lives in Cherry Creek. Check out her photos – they are amazing.

Mostly, it is just a long old drive down the Steptoe Valley toward McGill and Ely. Maybe we’ll see antelope or coyotes or even wild horses. That would be nice. My city kids need to see wild animals. I’ll be looking.

It’s an adventure for Harvey, too. I don’t know anything about his first two years of life and he’s just now becoming my dog. He’s developing a personality. He’s most likely never seen a jack rabbit. He has certainly never gone on a road tip like this before. I know he will be ecstatic to have AJ with us.

And then, Ely. Ely and the green cinder-block house on B Street with a view of the Nevada Northern Railway. We’ll all tell AJ how a movie ended there. And maybe we’ll go for a train ride. My dad would like that. He loved the steam train.

Maybe I will blog from Ely. Maybe not. I will promise to take photos. I will promise to drive safely. I will promise to breathe in and breathe out.

I promise to cry.

God, I miss my parents.

Take care and make sure you call your mom and dad today. Promise me.

Bittersweet.

Memories of my mom swim beneath the tense surface where memories of my father float, more vivid because they are more recent. Mentally, I am planning for the drive to Ely to help put the estate in order and set my nephew up with permanent housing. Emotionally, I am quiet, waiting for the black clouds to roil overhead with their load of rain and hail and sorrow.

I didn’t cry much when my mom died, either. There was an air of sadness around the three of us who were present, but we spent our time trying to make the others laugh. We leaned on each other as we had never done before in our lives.

Mom died June 17, the day before Father’s Day, 1995. I was in Reno because my brother called me and said, “Get down here, now.” My dad said I should wait.

We were not at the hospital when Mom died. Dad couldn’t sit by her bedside and watch her die. He’d been there before, waiting through the death-watch, and he couldn’t do it again. I think my mother understood that of him and they had probably discussed it many times. It was not her first trip to the hospital with the emphysema and complications.

We were there within minutes when the hospital staff alerted my brother. I still remember my dad slamming his fist against a wall and crying out, “No, no no!”

An hour earlier, I leaned over my mom and whispered, “It’s OK. You’re going to do what you want to do. I understand that. I love you.” She was high on morphine but her eyes stopped to look deep into mine. She no longer could talk: the tubes had ruined her vocal cords. She squeezed my hand and I knew I would never see her alive again.

But what is death? A passing from here to there, a momentary exit. Heaven isn’t so far away: it is right next to us, hidden by a veil. The shell that remained was not my mother any more than the shell my dad left behind was him.

I wear the diamond she had in her wedding band. It was a gift to her from my dad’s grandfather: the diamond he gave his bride in 1896. It’s a half-carat diamond with an obvious flaw. I have it set in the wedding band that Don picked out for me.

The night my mom died, my dad and I played Ninja undercover cops. Terry was on call for Washoe County Sheriff’s Department and he got a page that there was a fatal wreck on the road north of Gerlach, NV. Dad said he’d never been to Gerlach in all his years as a Nevadan. Terry said we could come along.

So we fetched the light trailer and the police truck, and off we headed in the dark to Gerlach. We passed through town in the dark. It snowed some. In the heart of the desert, Terry turned on the sirens and lights just for us. When we came to the wreck, Dad and I sat in the truck and waited, our sweatshirt hoods up over our heads because we were ninja undercover cops. We were sad for the truck driver who died.

On Father’s Day we took a drive. Dad wanted to go to a place in California where an old friend of his lived: the old friend being a retired mortician who had once lived in Winnemucca and gone square dancing with my folks. Dad wanted to ask Skip what to do. Despite the fact we dropped in on them, Skip and Edna took care of my dad in his grief and gave him advice on how to proceed. When we left, my dad’s heart was at ease more than it had been.

We stopped at Donner Lake and watched a house go up in flames (a roof fire). There was a water spout on the lake in the blustery winds. Terry looked down and said, “What’s the blue stuff?”

I leaned out of my window looking for the wildflower I knew I could identify.

They both started laughing: the blue stuff was the water of Donner Lake. Nevadans don’t usually see that much water.

I was the butt of several more jokes that day. We laughed so hard. We stopped in Truckee and ate at some pub. Terry took us on a tour of Incline Village. We saw a coyote standing in the middle of the road in the middle of  the day. Even when we honked our horn and yelled at it, it did not run away. My dad predicted it was a coyote inured of humans and therefore very dangerous.

A few months later, a four year old girl in Incline Village was badly mauled by an urban coyote. I think it was the same creature.

Now it is Mother’s Day, 2011. I am mostly packed. I’ll load up some food and water before I head out. I remind myself that I will have to pump my own gasoline. I haven’t pumped gas since 1979. Dang, I hate driving out of state. The oil is changed in my car, I’ve checked the air pressure. I’m trying to remember what it is at the house that I want. I can’t leave until later this week.

Mostly, I am sitting here feeling about as useful as a ninja undercover cop on a midnight drive through Gerlach.

One thing I have on my dad: I have been through Gerlach in the daylight. We didn’t miss anything when we went through in the dark.

I was looking for something else when I unearthed more old photos.

The only time I remember my dad having hair on his face: he had to grow a goatee for the 1964 Nevada State Centennial. Love the stove-pipe hat! Mom wrote on the back, “What a motley-looking crew! Terry already left for the parade.” She sewed our costumes and I remember thinking she was the Belle of the Ball in that blue dress. She was kind enough to not dress Denny and I exactly alike, even though she used the fame fabric for our dresses.

There’s nothing written on this photo but I am very certain it was of a young Sylvia Cusick before she married into the Wilcox family. It’s a poignant photo.

Gramps (“Fritz”) with his wife (Sylvia) and his mother (Irene Kimmey Wilcox). Mary & Jack in the foreground. Probably 1929.

I love the ornate cardboard frames old professional photos came in. Too bad I had to cut them off of the photos I scanned – otherwise the photos would be miniscule.

This photo is so funny! Mary and Jack Wilcox, circa 1929. Why did the photographer tint the little boy’s clothes pink? Do you suppose my dad was really dressed in pink? There wasn’t any real gender-specific color scheme in the early 1900’s, so it is possible that his outfit was pink. He’s obviously a little boy. And look at those ears! My dad’s big old ears were apparent at a very young age. He was so pudgy.

My favorite. My mom  (1932-1995) and My dad (1928-2011) as a very young couple. Terry has an impish look on his face already.

I will be leaving for Ely sometime this week. It’s a long old drive across Oregon and Idaho and then south on US 93. I’m taking Chrystal with me and Harvey. My dad won’t be at the house in Ely so he can’t say, “No Goddammed Dogs.” My dad actually liked dogs. He liked cats and horses, too. What he didn’t like was the inevitable heartbreak of losing one.

Don & Murphy will be holding down the fort here. I know Don would like to come be my support but sometimes it just isn’t possible. I watched my parents go through this with their parents: my mom rode the bus to Spokane by herself when her dad died. My dad spent two weeks in Idaho by himself when his dad died. the thing is: you know your spouse is there, waiting for you when you get home.

And this weekend, my parents are back together. Mom’s been waiting for Dad for almost 16 years.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! He’s home!

Add another May date to the previous post (May dates to remember): May 5, 2011.

I had barely walked into the house last night when Don told me the news: my dad was gone.

I just talked to him on Sunday.

It wasn’t altogether a surprise: he had COPD and was on oxygen. Sunday he was feeling terrible and weak. But it was still unexpected.

My brother had to drop everything he was doing to drive over to Ely and take care of arrangements: cremation, banking, all that stuff. My dad had everything written down and pretty much spelled out, so it is just a matter of implementation. But it is all on my brother’s shoulders because he has power of attorney and he lives that much closer than I do.

I picked up the phone calls – at least some of them. I can think of some family friends who still need to be notified and if I get a second wind tomorrow, I will probably call them. Or if Terry finds Dad’s personal phone book and sends me the phone numbers.

It’s strange: I never talk on the phone. I hate talking on the phone. Last night and today I have talked more on the phone than I usually manage in a year’s time. I’ve spoken with cousins that I haven’t seen in ages.

I haven’t cried much: that will come later.

I did remember that I was supposed to ask Levi a technical question for Dad. Then I remembered I couldn’t tell Dad the answer. I still do that sometimes with my mom: think of something I want to tell her and then remember she’s been gone since 1995.

I’m not thinking clearly enough to do a cohesive post on my dad. That will come later.

I’m rattling around, starting things and forgetting to finish them, operating in a fog: that is the first stage of grief. It’s a kind of adrenaline that comes and you move into high gear, take care of things, clean house, keep moving because you’re afraid if you stop you will collapse.

You won’t collapse.

So many good memories. I went looking for a particular photo I wanted to scan today and it wasn’t in the photo album. I must have removed it at some point in time for some reason and now it’s loose in a box somewhere. My folks were dressed up for a Hallowe’en party: Dad was in a yellow dress with black polka-dots, nylons & a wig. Mom was in a suit coat and sported a big black moustache. I want to find that photo but I don’t know where to look.

Dad was always doing something for Hallowe’en. He had this Frankenstein head that was made out of papier mache. I think my mom made it. We kids thought it was the best costume ever and we never let Dad get rid of that head. I think – I hope! – Terry has it now.

My mind runs from year to year, picking out events and dates – mostly the good stuff. There was a lot of ugly stuff, too. Dad was a very strict father. He lived by the rule that children should work. I used to think of him as having a snaking long bullwhip that he cracked over our heads whenever we were idle.

I think of the on-going war he had with my best friend. There was a black board in the kitchen where my parents wrote notes (usually lists of chores for us kids to do when we got home from school). Dad also wrote strange things on it like “Gung Hay Fat Choy!” every February. (To this day I am amazed when someone says, “What does that mean?” What? Were we the only WASPs that celebrated Chinese New Year every year? Apparently so.)

One day my best friend took the chalk and did the unthinkable: she wrote on the blackboard. Worse, what she wrote was off-the-wall and bizarre and she drew a picture to go with it: Krazy Kat was here!

She didn’t even sign it. My dad would see that and think one of us kids did it and … and …

And he thought it was the funniest thing. He wrote a message back to Krazy Kat.

For the rest of the years that we lived in that house, my dad and my friend left each other messages on the black board. Off-the-wall funny messages. And they pretended that they did not know who the other party was, writing their messages when the other one was not looking.

I’m still in shock. Still thinking of things we need to get taken care of and wishing I could be there to help my brother out.

For the next few days I will be blogging about my dad.

But it’s Mother’s Day! So here’s the irony about the date on the calendar this weekend: in 1995, my mom died on the day before Father’s Day. In 2011, my dad chose to join her on Mother’s Day weekend.

Maybe that’s why I want to find that photo…

Love you Mom & Dad!!

I am sitting here and looking at my calendar. May.

Tomorrow my son-in-law, Sam, officially graduates from Bible College. He actually finished last autumn but they made him wait to receive his diploma with the rest of the class. the funny thing is, the rest of the class he started with graduated long ago. Sam achieved a 2-year degree over the course of four years. Or something like that. He got married, became a father, got a job, became a father again, lived with his in-laws, became a father AGAIN, and all the while he plugged along at Bible College.

Tomorrow he gets his diploma. And we are very proud of him. Congratulations, Samuel!

Thursday is Cinco de Mayo which means nothing to me except we will probably have a Mexican dinner. When it comes to food, I love diversity. Hey, I celebrate Chinese New Year, too.

Friday is Chrystal’s birthday. It’s a milestone birthday but not a Milestone birthday. She won’t be old enough to drink legally in Oregon. I remember her birth. I was a thousand miles away and only vaguely aware that my sister was pregnant. I had no idea when the baby was due. But I went to bed on the 5th of May and had a very vivid dream in the wee hours of the 6th. I dreamed about a baby girl that was born and a battle between good and evil in the room where she was born. I was in the room. That I remember well because in the end, the baby girl was handed to me. Little did I know that my sister gave birth to a baby girl that would be “handed off” to me in the future!

I was thrilled when I got the call that Chrystal had been born and I wrote the dream down.

May 6th is also the anniversary of the death of my dear sister-in-law’s oldest son, Jared. Jared drowned in 2009 in the wilds of Alaska and I know Julie still hurts with every anniversary and event.

Jared’s school picture.

The 8th is Mother’s Day.

The 11th is my childhood best friend’s birthday (Happy birthday, Lisa!).

The 12th is my Aunt Phyllis’ birthday. She’s my mother’s oldest sister.

The 15th was my sister’s birthday. She would have been 52. She didn’t live to be 41.

The 17th is my dear friend, Rosie’s birthday. Happy birthday, Rosie! (Sorry about the loss of your beloved fur-friend, Pepper. Dang.)

May 18 is the 31st anniversary of the cataclysmic eruption of Mt. St. Helens (two weeks before my wedding).

May 22 is my oldest child’s birthday. She was “due” on the 1st but she wasn’t ready. I was, but she wasn’t. Happy Birthday, Arwen!

The 24th is my youngest niece’s birthday. She will be 14. I can’t handle this. Her mother has been gone since 2000. She was just a baby. Happy birthday, Jessica!

The 26th is my sister-in-law’s birthday. Not the sister-in-law whose son died, but the older one. Happy birthday, Debby!

And the 30th is Memorial Day. A day to honor our fallen soldiers although some have taken it to be a day to honor our dead. I’m not picky: you celebrate it how you will. Just do not forget our fallen soldiers.

And then we’re into June and a whole ‘nother litany of dates I have to remember.

My but the first of May 2011 was busy! The sun came out to play in the Willamette Valley and the rain stayed away.

I got that flower bed weeded. Harvey helped.

My uncle in Texas called and talked to me for the better part of an hour, filling me in with vital family history and vignettes of family lore. It was wonderful and I kept a little note tab by the phone where I jotted dates & names.

Less than half an hour later, my dad called. He didn’t know I’d just been on the phone with his younger brother. Dad had more stories and names and dates for me. We also exchanged a little “bird talk” because I was watching my bird feeder and telling him what birds were visiting.

The olive-backed Lesser Goldfinch that I was watching while I talked to my dad.

I told him about the osprey that was flying over my house as I weeded.

I seriously need a good telephoto lens.

At least one osprey does this every year: “scree-scree-scree-scree-scree” it calls as it circles, dips and dives over the cliffs just a half mile from my house. It hangs suspended over the Willamette River, trying to impress some phantom female.

My dad told me he did not know I had osprey up here. They had osprey in St. Anthony, Idaho where he grew up. There’s a huge nest on “the steel bridge”. He added that he hoped vandals could not get to the nest.

I hope so, too. It would be a Federal crime to destroy an osprey nest (or any protected bird).

I love the ospreys we have that fly over in the spring, calling to their mate.

Of course, that wasn’t all of May 1, 2011, but I leave the rest in the hands of historians as to whether or not the date is significant enough to record. For me – the family stuff is enough.

ttfn –

What a night!

My Uncle Mike called and talked for a long time, telling me all kinds of stories about the family (my great-grandfather, my grandfather, the dog “Midge” in the family photo, and his mom). My Uncle Mike is The Source for genealogy on the Wilcox side and I really enjoyed our long talk. He’s in his 70’s.

My plan was to watch Lara Logan on 60 Minutes and I only got fifteen minutes into that painful interview when the phone rang again: my dad. My dad had lots to say, too, and much of it was about genealogy. We also talked a bit about birds.

This came about because I had a “new” visitor to my bird bath: an olive backed lesser goldfinch male. “Cool”. My dad said he’d never seen one.

I told him about the osprey that was circling overhead this morning, calling out “chree-chree-chree” over and over.  I live above cliffs that overlook the Willamette River and the ospreys love to fish in the Willamette. But this one was doing a mating song.

(What I would give for a good telephoto lens some days!) There he is, declaring his love over and over and over.

My dad told me that there is an osprey nest on the steel bridge out of St. Anthony, Idaho – if vandals haven’t gotten to it. I hope vandals haven;t gotten to it: they are a Federally protected raptor.

I no sooner hung up the phone with my dad when CBS interrupted “60 Minutes” with “breaking news” about Osama bin Ladin. Wow.

But family history pre-empts that. Sorry, I’m not making any political statement outside of “wow”. We’ll see what that news brings us on the morrow.

I learned more about my family tonight, small stories that bring things into focus. My Uncle Mike is much younger than my dad and has a different perspective. He often accompanied my Great Grandfather. He had a wonderful rapport with my grandfather. He told me about his mother, Virginia (Bellinger) Newby, who mas my dad’s step-mother. (I think I spelled Newby right. I have it right on Ancestry.com). Uncle Mike promised to share things with me as I research my family & email him questions.

My dad has more on his mother’s side, the Cusick’s. I have hardly anything on the Cusick’s. Dad found things in his bachelor uncle’s estate (my beloved Uncle Frank) that he wants to share with me. Can you say “excited”?

I am so interested in all this. All this history… roots in the ground. Roots in American soil, in Wales, Ireland, Scotland and England. Roots in Holland, even. War heroes and… cowards as well. Men who could not serve because they were new immigrants. Land deeds.

So before I close tonight, here’s a question for you: do you know the difference between “immigrant” and “emigrant”? It’s an important distinction. My husband has a rich history of emigrants on the Oregon Trail. I have uncovered a rich history of immigrants from the Old World.

God Bless America. The America my ancestors fought to create.

Don took off for the mountains yesterday. His plan was to camp out one night & be home tonight but he would check in with me via his SPOT GPS. Funny thing is: it only works in certain places and it only works when he turns it on. I don’t know if he had it on and tried to send me updates or if he just forgot but the only update I had as of 8:00PM tonight was where he was yesterday at 1:00PM.

Not that I worry. I got him the SPOT because he spends an inordinate amount of time in the woods and it’s just wise to let people know where you are so *if* the unthinkable happens they can find you. But he’s only had the SPOT for a year and we’ve been married for almost 31 years. That means there’s been 30 years of trust between us. Trust that he’s OK in the woods alone and he might be spending an extra night.

I was going to blog at 8:00 and upload a bunch of Don’s photos from his computer just because I could. I figured he was spending the night in the woods (again).

At 8:01 he sent me a GPS signal that interrupted my blogging and confirmed my assumption: he was spending another night in the woods.

I got side-tracked after that.

But I am back and before it becomes tomorrow I thought I’d hijack Don’s computer and his vast  collection of photos. Don’s world, as it were.

Murphy is in a lot of Don’s photos.

That’s my husband. He’s somewhere “out there” hiking, camping, observing.

I know where he is right now. I know where he will be tomorrow night at this same time.

In between… He’s out where no one else is.

And that’s pretty cool.