Letter to my Grandma.
Hi Gran!
It's our anniverary today. I look at the picture where you're grinning with some of the great grandkids stacked all around you, and marvel at God's wisdom in protecting from knowing what's to come. I'm sure we would have tried to run from it--your cancer, and fall, and passing on just a few short months later... but we didn't, because we didn't know, so I look at that moment, and think what a busy five years it's been, and it's so amazing how life changes.
Gran, I'm sorry the last few years were so hard for you. I'm sorry I was drowning, and you didn't really know how to help. And I know you weren't sure if you wanted to, or if you wanted to give me another dunk. And I am sorry about not getting that lemon meringue pie up to you at hospice. I really thought there was more time.
You taught me in that, you know. That at a certain point we find our cup full up to the brim of regrets, of moments lost, and we know we cannot, must not, will not add another drop, lest it spill over, and flood out the joy of today. I'm learning. But that doesn't really empty the cup...
So much has happened, as you've been tiptoeing around the edges of eternity. Day to day, our lives shift.
I've had three more little ones, and Heidi adopted a little girl!
Her little girl Mylie,3 and my little girl Ellerie,4 are best friends, and boy would you love them! They are sassy, sweet, adorable little things! I'm wondering if you do know them, actually. One day, Ellie was playing in the sunbeams by our front door, when something burst the door open. And I went walking toward her quickly as I was startled by the suddeness of it, and as I was just about there, she turned fully toward the sunlight, threw open her arms, and yelled, "Hi Honey!!" I gasped, and hugged her up, asked her who she was talking to, and she just blinked at me, and turned away to continue playing. It was you, wasn't it?
Connor is almost 3 and a sweet little doe-y eyed boy. His brown eyes are as deep as any of Miner descent could be. You just want to fall in when you look at them, even when he's making angry eyes. When he does this (we call it pirate mode), we'll tell him he needs quiet time to settle down, and he points one finger straight up in the air and yells, "NEV-OOO!!" and it's really hard to stay stern. You'd love 'im, I know.
Mac is the baby--well his fullname is Cormac, but that would probably bug you, 'cause you wouldn't remember it, so anyways, we call him Mac--and he is walking everywhere now. When he encounters a person, or tall flower, or lawn chair, he stops, and holds a jabbery, slobbery, joyful conversation. It's as if he's saying, "This world! It's so touchable! And did you know, there's a TON of stuff you can fit in your mouth, and it all tastes different! And my mom, she's so funny. Sometimes she's like 'Nononono!!!' And then sometimes she's telling me, 'Chewchewchew.' She can never make up her mind. And... Oh! I see something over there... I gotta go." And he'll wave around his chubby, wet hand and toddle off.
Hailey just got her driver's license. Seems like last week she was laying her binkies on a tissue on the seat of your car to keep them safe while she went into preschool. She misses you. But oh, she is beautiful! Too beautiful, probably. I hope she grows into what her blue eyes are before someone breaks her heart because of them...
And Tanner. Such a sweet, gentle, patient kid. But he's so TALL! He would tower over you. He's like, "Hey Mom... (croaking) Check it out (flexing arm) I'm like a man, huh?" Yes, Tanner. Such a dude. He would wrap you up in a hug, probably lift you off your feet like my dad always did. I know how you felt about your kids, know now why it was essential to feel their feisty, faithful, impulsive love bustling around you. I cook like a madwoman too.
Caden. TO end on Caden would probably annoy him, although I didn't do it intentionally. He's adorable in a freckly, messy hair, ten year old way. But, WOW his temper needs tempering. We're working on it. He's just ready to put up those emotional dukes, and then he regrets it. He's so bright, though. *sigh* He misses being with my dad the most, I think.
I remember coming in to the living room and seeing you cry once. Just once. And I know life dealt you sadness more than once. But I understand you, Gran, more than just being able to nail your Rhubarb Crunch recipe. Sometimes, it's just about determining that you will feel the sorrow later, to save the space in your day for joy. And so many people don't understand, can't know, what it takes to do that. How that lonely place is just so very alone. But I understand now, even though it didn't help you then. And I miss calling 849-3453 and hearing you say, Hello. Because you would understand me, without saying another word.
A million moments after you've gone on to paint sunsets--that's what Caden has decided you're doing--I hear you every time I stir my coffee and my spoon clinks against the mug. I use your sugar bowl. And I butter my saltines. When my tomatoes come in I'll have a warm toast sandwich with them. I remember you.
So. Gran. Here's to forever. Until then...
Love you.

Date night: Two words, one elusive moment for parents of six. This idea is something I grasp at with eager, greedy emotion. And it really doesn't have to be much to make my day. My husband and I have enjoyed "dates" at Sam's Club, the library, Starbucks (if we're feelin' fancy), and some favorite times at the free summer concerts in Willoughby.
Two years ago, we decided this concept of spending time alone together was... important. (Um, absolutely necessary if a certain mother of five at the time was to be pulled out of the corner in which she was rocking back and forth.) The first scheduled date was cancelled. Someone had pink eye. The second date (first in occurence) took place at a local restaurant known for ribs (I ordered fish). The seating was close,the napkins smelled musty, and... we had nothing to talk about. It was a disaster! I was in tears (mind you, I'm pretty sure I was pregnant with number six and just didn't know it yet). We had been reduced to other people's conversations. We finished eating quickly, and decided to find a sunset to watch. (We had hired a sitter, and couldn't figure out the right amount to pay for 45 minutes.) We missed the sunset, having been thoroughly turned around in the disorienting Fairport Harbor (think: Bermuda Triangle on Lake Erie), and decided to have ice cream on the beach. It rained.
After that first date, I was more determined than ever to re-introduce myself to my spouse. We both began to look for hidden gems of entertainment and conversation sparks, and took along bits of books and poetry (my contribution) to read to each other when the conversation waned. Interestingly, I think we only read a bit on the second date (my husband having been duly persuaded to keep me talking rather than having to listen to my poetry selections, more than likely). Whatever the cause, our date nights had received a much needed spark, and although there is no definable pattern, they do happen. In fact, one of the best occured this weekend.
I had been poking around on facebook, and there was an ad for Little Italy's Artwalk. I clicked on it, bought all the propaganda, hook-line-and-sinker, and begged my husband to take me there. I'd never been.
True to my tendency of loving all things eclectic, I am completely enamored with the place. Frank Sinatra set the tone as soon as we parked on one of the slanty sloping streets, his crooning wooing pedestrians through loudspeakers, although the elderly couple sitting on their porch (he in dark socks and snappy suspenders, she in a faded-soft housedress) looked a little tired of the hullabaloo. A warm breeze swished my skirt, and I took my husband's hand.
The breeze also carried scents so fragrant I literally wanted to swallow it down. Restaurant after restaurant lined the street. White tableclothes showcased linguini with mussels, bread and oil, sparkling red wine and votives... Conversation hummed and Venetian masks winked mysterious charm, hung in windows and propped on displays. We walked through a sidewalk massage station, complete with tattooed mannequins boasting wigs that were up for raffle. The saucy smell of Mama Santo's grabbed us by the nose, seemed to say, "You have arrived. Eat. Now."
Here the tables boasted no white coverings, and the paneled walls sported a few faded pics of Italy lit by red-white-and-green light sconces. Our waitress spoke in a thick Sicilian accent, encouraging me that the manicotti, all from scratch, were wonderful. We each ordered an entree. And a large pepperoni pizza to share. Later, as we were thick into our meals, she came back to survey us on our choices. "Umm. Uhm-mm," was all I could say, my eyes kind-of rolled back. (Think: subtle version of Meg Ryan re-enactment.) Manners had nothing to do with not opening my mouth. I couldn't have borne letting a flavor escape.
Later, we strolled the galleries, absorbing gorgeous paintings, jewelry, papers... We even took in a pink scooter with leopard seat covers, although the owners weren't giving rides--not that Jason would've accepted, mind you. I fingered a delicate ivory scarf, itched to buy it, but decided to ask for another visit, this one with an intentional shopping twist, on an upcoming birthday.
The humid evening ended with a thunderstorm, which seems to be our m.o. Personally, I think it just may be the way my heart pounds--when my sweet glances my way, catches me off guard with a kiss-- that causes these date night weather disturbances.

I stick out my chin when I'm angry. Wrinkle my nose when I'm not convinced. I'm told laser beams shoot out of my eyes, or something like that, when I'm outraged or at least supremely annoyed. I've tried to catch a glimpse of myself doing this, as it seems to garner an effective response when employed, but the habit is entirely reflexive, not prone to re-enactment or pretend.
Mind you, I'm not particularly fond of the existence of any of these attributes. My desire is to be so slow to anger that my chin would merely dimple upon exertion. That I would be so ready to believe that my nose would remain perfectly alligned. And it would seem patience would damper the aforementioned laser beam device. Partially, this is a growth problem for me. I think, though, that genetics may also play a role.
My family, in particular the "Runion" side, is known for its... passion. My husband, having sadly been the target of a couple of flying shoes, might label the emotional tendencies differently. And although this "passion" can be problematic in personal relations, (well, okay, in ANY type of relating), I've found it can be very effective when facing a non-human opponent, such as a supposed "insurmountable task" or, more recently in the Runion side of life, cancer.
Today, my uncle, Mark, is having a gamma knife procedure on fifteen cancerous lesions on his brain. Again. He underwent the procedure, which involves having a helmet literally screwed into his skull while laying wide awake and motionless for four to seven hours as the surgeons zap away at his brain, just before Christmas also. He has endured two knee replacements, lifetime doses of chemo and radiation, a steel rod inserted into his leg to strengthen a broken hip, jaw surgery, pneumonia, and, oh, a stroke, over the course of the past four years after discovering he had lung cancer. He's fifty-four. And he's a little put out over it all. You might even call him cranky. He'd be REALLY ticked if he knew I was writing about him.
I can't help myself. He's always been special to me. He started (and maintained, much to my mother's chagrin) my first record collection, consisting of REO Speedwagon, Kiss, Donna Summers, and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band. He brought me a trophy when I won my first accordian contest that said, "Anything boys can do, girls can do better."
He always smelled good.
I thought he and his friends were the lost tribe of Fonzi's crew, or at least the seventies version of the Outsiders. They were cool, tough, and always ready to give my uncle's little niece a push on the swing in the apple tree.
I can not remember a dinner at my grandma's (and there were LOTS) where his... tempestous energy wasn't used to mash a giant pot of potatoes, where he didn't bump his head on the low ceiling on his way to the table, where he didn't finish off a gallon of milk (left sitting out on the floor by his chair), where he didn't pick a fight with my Uncle Norm, where he didn't kiss my grandma and tell her thanks for dinner when he finished.
He would tell anyone off in a heartbeat, if they deserved it, if he mistakenly thought they did, if he was just in a foul mood and THOUGHT they SHOULD deserve it... He would, all choked up, apologize from the bottom of his flip-flopped feet later, but only if they truly deserved it.
His grin is infectuos. White teeth and neatly trimmed mustache in place for as long as I can remember. His moustache is white now too, although the rest of his hair is gone. He is still smiling.
And, did I mention, cranky?
But you want to know a secret? Sometimes, when the heart is breaking, and the will is tired, and the strength is just about all used up, all you can do is stick out your chin, and wrinkle your nose, and blast some dumb cancerous thing to pieces. And not everyone will understand, and probably no one will give you a trophy, and you just might not be as grown up acting as somebody might think you should be, but you just, you just might make it because of that.
A picture message came through on my cell phone as I was writing this post. It's Uncle Mark, fitted in his Darth Vaderish gamma knife bug zapper cap. Guess what? He's smiling. I think I see him sticking out his chin.

My oldest child, my beautiful sweet sixteen, will be a junior in high school. This at once takes my breath away and makes my heart race. She's lovely, through and through, and if I were to wax poetic (or at least metaphorical), I'd tell you that she's like the peonies that are bobbing their heads outside my window. One day, tightly compressed around themselves, layer after layer of miracles building, hidden, and then exploding with life and fragrance and powerful delicate pink the next. Mind you, she's of a stronger constitution, I think, and doesn't bend after one strong rain, and, well, she isn't covered with ants. She does, however, want to play the tuba.
Amazingly, my daughter with a bend for all things athletic (in this way, she veers sharply from her mama), based on her mom's cajoling, pleading, tearful repetition of "Try it, TRY it", played in the marching band last year as a first year sophomore. And, she fell in love. Head over heels, labels herself a band geek, thinking about a music major in love... I couldn't be more pleased. Not that I'll let her know this right away.
Sitting in the parent meeting last fall, where all things marching were carefully laid out in front of us sweating, dedicated, to-practice-on-time deliverers, I was caught up in a swirl of memories. The band directors, for whom I have developed an INTENSE fondness and gratitude, have their acts together. They love these kids. Are realistic about these kids. Are straightforward, passionate and untiring in their dedication to these kids. And I was blown away with anticipation for my child to experience what was in store for her. The parent handbook spelled out details, but my heart beat out experience after experience...
The new uniform smell. Fresh out of the dry cleaner bag, carefully put together and as closely sized as the anonymity of the overcoat and stirruped pants would allow by other dedicated, sweating parents. The look of the hat. (I had worn a beanie. Drummers rocked.) Shiny buttons. A white shoe requirement. (I wore spats. Haven't said or thought of that word in years.) The feeling of belonging to something BIG. LOUD. ATTENTION, PLEASE.
Cold bleachers. Muddy fields. Marching the wrong way because my parka was blinding me, but letting everyone think it was Mary Kay Campbell since no one could tell us apart anyways. The fear of getting cocoa on the overlay during third quarter. Bleacher creatures (my director's pet name for the students that wanted to absorb a bit of our ONENESS, without the practice, uniform, or band camp sweat.)
Band camp. Being a MUN. The silence of a stadium before the drum roll of the National Anthem. Drum rolls. Rolling on my drum (this memory was a painful one).
The pulse of music. How it was life blood for me. How I had, in the process of kids and careers and laundry, forgotten it.
Memory after mental movie after a million exploding rememberings... but there I was, in the midst of reverie, in the midst of a parent meeting that I probably needed to listen to for my daughter. Who had suddenly bloomed and was going to fall in love with this face, this soul, this friend Music who I knew so well.
She had a blast, and I wonder about the million rememberings she started to collect. Wish I could watch her mental movies, at least a few--maybe lightly edited for my poor heart's sake. She became a permanent fixture in the band room. And allowed herself to be persuaded to switch from clarinet to TUBA, in the name of all things BIG and BLATTY.
I tease her that she'll look like Larry the Cucumber from Veggie Tales. That I can envision her snapping to attention and then slowly tipping backward like a fallen cedar. But really, I know she'll have a blast (no onomatopoeiac pun intended). The comradie of the section rivals (but won't compare with) the percussion section. Her big blue eyes will sparkle. She might even wear a beanie--but I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is how much I love her. And that if I could freeze frame this stage of her bloom, suspend it time for us to turn around, examine, cherish it, I would. Because it is so breathakingly lovely, and heart-pounding awesome.

I cannot write with abandon. That is, I cannot, CAN NOT simply write with no clear sense of where my writing is going, internal editor turned off, writing just to get all of my ideas out. This is, by turns, detrimental and self-preserving.
Imagine some amazing athlete, Jackie Joyner or Appollo Ono perhaps, entering their respective arenas. Imagine they have no restraints in place as to how they will exert themselves--gear fastened haphazardly, limbs wildly moving, lightening-speed chaos. While it would be fascinating to watch, and momentarily, satisfyingly exertive (exhortive, even??), they could be hurt! Seriously, or at the very least, completely wrung out, over-stretched...
Being a, as I've heard the term expressed, constant mental blogger,wouldn't I wear myself out if I didn't provide myself with restraints? And imagine the butchered grammar, senseless mispellings, tragic nonsensical exploration of ideas that could ensue... I might even discover things hidden deep inside myself, potentials I've never thought to plunder, much less exploit.
Hmm. This could be delicious. It could be fascinating to be wreckless with sound and image. Irresponsible with puns. Think ee cummings. Think Dr. Seuss. Think... well, no. Don't think. That's the detrimental, isn't it? Overthinking, overwringing, over-doing.
I'd love to explore these thoughts, these imaginings. Maybe I will. Later, when I don't have a million demands, like kids to pick up, set down, change, bathe, feed, entertain, nourish... Because it's almost lunch time and a storm is brewing so everyones antsy,even me.
So, I'll post. My first rambling, not perfectly finished, unedited, haven't thought out or tied together blog. For me, this is a big step.

Four years have passed since my first post. Four years, and the arrival of two more children, and, in reference to said first post, the shedding of several layers of skin. No, I'm not a snake, and with six kids have barely enough time to brush my teeth, much less exfoliate. I'm just... stretching, sighing, becoming the person who actually lives in my skin.
I've been thinking about this whole "becoming" idea. I think I always used to think of life in terms of arrivals. I watched other people, going about their days and lives and imagined them neatly arrived and unpacking--happy with their flight, destination, the outfits they picked out. I seemed to never feel that way.
For me, I had packed too new of shoes, ones that rubbed tender blisters, and sported a fanny pack that signaled I was a)outdated and b)definitely a tourist. I longed for a place to "move into". You know, some place comfy and perfect, maybe with dinner already simmering on the stove.
To "arrive" at this quilt-wrapped, perfectly-packed place, I employed this backward practice of erasing. I glanced over one shoulder to see where I ought to be, and then rub, rub, rubbed this giant pink eraser over the story lines of my life I'd crafted, imagining them to be too full of mistakes and mismatched socks to possibly be the ones I needed to get me where I thought I wanted to be.
The problem, other than GIGANTIC piles of eraser bits (I remember this boy in second grade who saved his, neatly swept into the wooden groove at the front of his desk), was that a)leaden memories still taunted from the stubborn paper fibers and b)all that I had smudged out was the good stuff--evidence of growth, grace, answered prayers. And the truth is, I started to miss people. Because I was so worried about where I thought I should be, and where I shouldn't have been that I was letting these most beautiful people and moments just... rub away.
When I was little, maybe five or six, my parents had taken me to my first accordian contest, and predawn, I awoke to my mom frantically banging all of our shoes on the floor. She didn't tell me at the time, but I found out years later that the big, old beautiful hotel also hosted big, old beautiful cockroaches, and Mom had discovered one and preferred not to bring home souvenirs. So I'm shaking out my bags. I might uncover some roaches. (I hope not, and if I do they'll just have to leave.) What I'm really hoping for are dusty, quirky souvenirs, that with a little love will look just right on the mantle, despite my neglect.
And you know what? I've realized my Trip Tik doesn't have a destination marked. Just some really great points of interest that I'd like to check out.