The Travel Bug has bit me

This 18 year old girl thought herself a world traveler. She'd experienced parts of Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Spain and Saudi Arabia. She thought she had seen it all. Little did she know she hadn't even seen the tip of the iceberg. What she had seen was one small drop in a VERY large bucket of water. 

She was so very grateful for what her parents had given her. An opportunity she knew not many got. She didn't have a clue that the little taste of travel she had experienced would never leave. It was embedded as part of her soul. It would become part of who she was. It would define her in ways she wouldn't be able to conceive at 18. 

Travel writer Pico Iyer once said, "Travel is like love, in the end, mostly because it's a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end."

She had, without a doubt, the travel bug. It sat dormant for many years (mostly due to finances). Then when it worked it's way to the surface, it was too late. She was now fully addicted. The bug would not leave her. She and the bug were one. I didn't mean that to sound as gross as it does.)

And how do I know I have the travel bug?

For starters, I just do. But since you asked nicely, I know because travel is on the forefront of my mind almost always. If I am not thinking about where I've been, I'm thinking about where I'm going. Googling a country or a ship or an airline rate. It's always there. 

While on a trip I try to absorb as much as I can. Because I know it'll make me want to travel more, see more, do more, eat more. And 100% of the time, I'm planning my next adventure while on an adventure. 

I have a bucket list. The flu has symptoms. A bucket list is a symptom of the travel bug. It's a fact. The bucket list changes on a regular basis, and once I've checked something off, inevitably that trip has added another two or three things/places to see.

I have a suitcase just to hold all my travel stuff. That's right, a travel bag. For years I would tote this stuff around and stash it here and there. Then on one trip someone suggested getting a rolly bag and putting all my travel stuff in it. Wow. Having it all in one spot is really the best. I'd say I have an documented inventory of what's in it too, but that's a little over the top, right? Right? Cuz I totally don't have that. Nope - not little Miss Organized. 

Speaking of the inventory I don't have, I also don't have a complete OneNote file of travel checklists, Activity log, Journey Details (plane info, train info etc), accommodation tracker, research tracker etc. Nope. A person who didn't have the travel bug would most definitely NOT have those items. 

My passport is sacred. It is one of my possessions that I treasure beyond all. It gets me places. 

And finally, my heart lives in other places. I swear each new place I visit it feels like home. And something about it stays with me. It becomes a part of me and story. 

Dad introduced me to travel. From the moment he mentioned moving to Saudi Arabia and all the cool things that came with that, until the day he no longer knew who he was, let alone me, he talked about travel. "Travel," he'd say, "is humbling. It shows you so much more than you can imagine." He'd continue on about enlightenment, and experiencing new cultures, and would always end with discussing the food. Loving local food is definitely one thing he passed on to me. 

But without fail, every single trip I have a short conversation with Dad in my head. I tell him about where I'm going and what I'm going to see. I end that conversation with thanking him for what he's given me...this drive to see the world. 

Travel is above all an education. It's not always about the history either, there's more deep stuff that I've learned:

1. The biggest is that America is NOT the center of the universe. I hate that when we travel so many areas lump all American travelers in to that "ugly American" category. I've seen those ugly American types and I just roll my eyes at the entitlement.  
2. 
   It's very humbling to see the world and see all the history that has come long before the US. I have stood in awe when I'm in a cathedral that's been around since the 14th century - or earlier. I remember standing in the Roman coliseum being amazed that it was still standing and thinking about how many thousands - millions of people have witnessed and stood where I was.
3. Try new things. Not just food, but experiences. 
4. Appreciate different cultures. So many interesting cultures in the world. Some are similar to us Americans, but all of them are different enough that there is room to learn and experience. 
5. Be the tourist. I LOVE the touristy stuff. We usually have such a short time in one spot, that sometimes the touristy stuff is what I've come there for. 
6. Pack your patience. I am not a patient person so this one is hard. But I embrace it when I'm literally in the act of traveling (i.e. in the airport). Traveling is exhausting and full of stress. I find myself very balanced and calm when I'm at the airport. And that leads to being patient. Plus, I can't actually control 99% of what's going on around me, so why not control that 1% I can?
7. Never stop learning! So much to learn. Read, and then read some more. Educate yourself about where you're going and what you'll be seeing. It makes you a better, brighter, more "in the know" person. I loath the traveler who is there for the selfie, but doesn't understand the importance or historical nature of what they're witnessing. "Loath" might be a little harsh, but you get my drift. 
8.  Making short term friends. It's true. When you travel, especially on a cruise or the preplanned trips we've done, you get to know the people around you. You learn a little about their lives. You know you have a common theme of travel to talk about. You step off the boat and head back to your lives. You may not ever see these people again, but they were part of your trip and your experience. If you're lucky, you make some that stick. I have several FB friends that I still keep in touch with after I met them on a trip. 

I know this travel bug is going to stay with me forever. I have it bad. It's part of what defines me now. And as some wise person once said, "Once the travel bug bites there is no known antidote. And I know that I shall be happily infected until the end of my life."

All Day Cooking...it's my fave!

Today is Sunday, the second Sunday of the month at that. If you pay attention, or have been lucky enough to earn an invite to, today is Sunday dinner! 

Sunday dinners started in 2010! I cannot believe what started as a way for me to see my friends more often has turned into a monthly event that includes traveling Sunday Dinners. It started with just a handful of friends, then grew from there. I kept adding people to the list. 

Sunday dinner started with me cooking, and only me. I wouldn't let anyone bring anything. Each dinner was a well planned meal in which everything "went" together. I loved doing this. I loved spending the day cooking and preparing something delicious that I knew everyone would enjoy. 

The first Sunday dinner menu was Spaghetti Bolognese, olive cheese bread, Caesar salad, and dipped brownie bites. It takes a day to cook and it's worth every minute. The kitchen was an absolute disaster after, but it was worth every bit of it. 

I'll admit that at the time I figured I'd do a handful of these and then get bored with it and move on. Turned out everyone loved it. Each person I invited commented how nice it was and felt very old fashion. And could we keep doing this? Who am I to disappoint my friends? 

As the years progressed, I was convinced to let others bring something. I'd cook the main "meat" and then everyone signed up for an appetizer, salad, side, and dessert. Most brought wine along with whatever they brought. 

This got to be more fun and allowed everyone to contribute to the meal. Some were feeling guilty that I was taking the brunt of the cost - which I didn't mind. Most bring something they've not made before. Some get into ruts and bring the same thing every time. What I learned is, it's ok. Whatever. I learned to chill out about it. 

This year for Sunday dinners, I decided to mix it up some. At the December Sunday dinner I had everyone put themes into a bowl and then we selected 10 out of it (10 because we'd not have one in May, and we already knew the Low Country Boil was planned for July). The group got creative. They could put in as many or as few that they want. 

The result was a list of pretty darn good themes. We started the year with a fondue party. Learned that if you're doing fondue, that you should use oil and you should have extras to eat cuz it takes so long to cook the meat. The cheese and chocolate was the highlight by far. 

Indian was a fun one. Most of the group hadn't every cooked Indian food. I made Butter Chicken which is my favorite thing ever in Indian food. 

The favorite appetizer/dessert/cocktail/wine was an interesting one. Since it was all appetizers, we were "done" with Sunday dinner by about 6:30. Full of food and happy as ever. 

Tonight is French. We'll see what everyone brings. For me? I couldn't decide what to make so I'm making Coq au Vin and Beef Bourguignon! This house smells amazing! What's interesting about these two recipes, they both have a lot of the same ingredients: bacon, wine, chicken stock, mushrooms, onions, thyme. Biggest difference is coq au vin has one more aromatic - celery. I've got the beef cooking away in the slow cooker and coq au vin in the Dutch oven in the oven on a low heat. We're going to have more food than you can imagine, but that's what being a Wraspir is all about. 

When covid hit we had to put a stop to the dinner. Or did we? No, we did not! We did zoom dinners and it was great to continue to stay connected to these people. It was odd at first, but by mid 2020 we were in the grove and spoke frequently about how we couldn't wait to get back together again. 

The other thing that has come out of these Sunday dinners are the group photos. I can't remember why I started doing it (I mean, it was probably because of scrapbooking) it just started. We'd all gather around and SNAP a photo. Then one night I had everyone do a goofy face. Now we hardly ever take a "normal" shot. Only the goofy will do. 

But beyond the food and the photo what I love the most are the people. The attendees vary a little month over month. I average about 10 people each dinner (it used to be 12 before I moved) and all those people I love. I consider them all family. I know, without a doubt, that any of them would be at my side with a hug, a meal, a smile or money. They're just amazing people and I'm so glad to call them all family. I'm not sure they realize their family. And I didn't really ask them if they wanted to be in my family, but I also don't care. Too bad! You're in! 

High school was so long ago

I've been out of high school for (gosh let me get the calculator) 35 years this year. THIRTY FIVE years! Poof. Gone. Just like that. I am having a hard time even fathoming that. It's been like, well, a lifetime. 

I think most of us occasionally remember our time in high school. Whether you enjoyed high school or not, it likely influenced you in some way or shape. 

You might be lucky enough to still have friends from high school. I do. And thanks to the advent of social media, I've been able to really stay in touch and see their lives unfold. 

My high school adventure was different than most my friends. I went to 4 different schools for high school. Having to make new friends every time we moved was something I was used to. I mean, that’s how we grew up as military brats.

Let’s start at the very beginning. 9^th grade.

Antelope Valley High School

I started high school at Antelope Valley HS in Lancaster, California. Most my friends were going to AVHS too being that we were all in Jr. High together. High school didn’t feel any different to me than jr. high did. We still had studies. We still had to change classes at the bell. We still had homework, etc.

The one big difference for me was I joined the rifle team as part of the marching band.  Technically, I joined the banner squad first, but quickly realized those girls were not my cup of tea. I happened upon the rifle team one afternoon and asked if I could learn. They were a small group of 4 and were happy to show me the ropes. I picked up a rifle, learned a few things and never looked back.  

My time at AV was dominated by band, field shows, and friends that were in band. I still had a ton of friends from the church went to AV too. They were all in the band as well. My only real memories of 9th grade is band. Band. And more band. 

That's me on the far right NOT looking at the camera

That's me on the far right. I'm looking to make sure I'm in line with everyone else.

Quartz Hill High School

Towards the end of 9th grade, we moved across town. That put me in another school district. So 10th grade I went to Quartz Hill HS - the rival HS to AV. 

Rifles were, by now, a passion of mine. And I was good. I had spent hours practicing and improving. I had more confidence than I probably should have it seemed because I reached out to the band director and asked if I could try out of captain of their rifle team. The balls! 

Captain Jenn

I tried out and got it. In fact, every time I hear "I Tumble for Ya" from Culture Club I'm reminded of my brazen spirit because that's the song I tried out to. 

QHHS was also all about band. I had a HUGE crush on a guy in the band - I mean first love kind of crush, but that's another story for another time. 

As the captain of the rifles, I had a squad of very talented women. I struggled with allowing them to help create our routines at first, but then realized they had good ideas and could make us better. My first lesson of leadership was "you don't know everything". 

The rifle squad

In my 10th grade year Boeing transferred my Dad to Seattle. That meant a new school. So in March of 1985 I said goodbye to all my friends in Lancaster, to my church, and to my beloved rifles. 

Redmond High School

We landed in Redmond, WA and for part of my 10th grade and part of my 11th grade I went to Redmond High School - Home of the Mustangs. Coincidence? I think not.  

Redmond HS didn't have a rifle team. They barely had a band. So I made the decision to get involved in volleyball. I had spent enough summers at the family farm in Eastern Wa where Blueberry and I became BFFs. She was in volleyball and loved it, so I figured I'd give it a shot. 

I have zero friends from Redmond that I speak with today. I was there for such a short time that I doubt anyone there remembers me. I remember a few of them on occasion and wonder what happened to them. I had a crush there too and I wonder what happened to him. 

Redmond High was such a drop in the bucket of time. I spent only 5 months there between the end of my sophomore year and beginning of the junior year. I have zero pictures of that time in my life at school. 

The American School in Switzerland

Then the BIG move. In the early fall of 1985 Dad and Mom announced that they were going to spend some time in Riyadh Saudi Arabia with the Boeing Co. I had a decision to make. 

Boeing would cover the cost of a boarding school in a couple of different locations. I could pick one, apply and go there. OR I could stay in Washington and live with my older brother and finish up my high school here.  

We all know what decision I made. It wasn't hard. What was hard was fretting about whether I'd actually get accepted into the boarding school. My grades weren't the best and these were highly esteemed schools that required serious, studious types. Or so I thought. 

I had four options for schools. I could go to a boarding school in Mallorca Spain. Intriguing and was on the top of the list for a little bit. The next option was TASIS Cyprus or UK. Cyprus wasn't interesting to me at all, but the UK was. Then the option of TASIS Switzerland in Lugano. There was something about the campus photos in the brochure that pulled me in. And I thought Switzerland was more central and maybe I could see more of the world by being "landlocked" like that. 

I applied and we waited with bated breath to see if I got in. I wasn't so convinced I would and so living with the oldest brother was going to be plan b. 

We received acceptance in about October of 1985 and the plan was on. Now we had to figure out the logistics. I'd be starting TASIS mid-year in January 1986. The school started it's second semester in St. Moritz for 2 weeks of school in the morning and skiing in the afternoon. I know, rough life. 

This was actually more difficult than you think. I was MOVING to school. And starting the first two weeks not at the school and rooming with girls who weren't going to be my actual roommates was difficult. I mean, not that difficult, but it was nerve wracking. 

I was fortunate that my roommates for those weeks at St. Moritz were amazing. They were my first friends. A couple of them took me under their wings and showed me the ropes. 

What was most amazing about TASIS were the class sizes. Each class had less than 10 students. Most of my classes had 5-7 students. Think about that for a moment. One teacher to 5 kids. That meant you HAD to do the work. You couldn't hide behind the 30 other students in your class. It also meant you got to know your classmates really quickly and the teachers interacted with you on a regular basis. 

My classes were typical high school classes. English, math, science, and history. History became my favorite. It was European history. Not US history. It felt so much more real than US history every did for me. I clung to it and soaked up everything I could. And got to visit some areas that we studied about - which most students in the US don't have that option. 

Once back at the TASIS campus, I was assigned to the dorm Belvedere. I had three other roommates who struggled to find ANY room in their closets or shelves for me. These three ladies were "popular" and I was not. We got along just fine, but I would never be part of their world. I was fine with that. I decorated the wall under next to my bottom bed of the bunk bed with my Duran Duran posters and some Christian Rock groups I was in to. I had a dresser out in the hallway and a small desk to do homework and write letters on. I shared a bathroom with 10 girls. One bathroom. One shower. Ten teenage girls. Yah, good times. 

Belvedere Dorm

The lower bunk I shared with Duran Duran.

My little drawers and desk.

Classes at TASIS were extraordinary. Some classes were in "rooms" like you'd expect a class to be in. Other classes were in the "salons" of some of the large mansions that were converted to dorms. My history class was in the "salon" of Belvedere. We sat at a LARGE wooden table to learn. My English class was in a "large bedroom" of another mansion/dorm (Hadsall). My science class was in an actual lab - which was new and different to me. And in each case there were just a handful of us in the class. I think my Biology class was the largest at 7. 

I wasn't the greatest student in public schools in the states, but I was getting by with little studying. I was a solid B student. At TASIS, my first quarter my GPA dropped an entire point. I was called into the counselor's office to discuss my GPA. Turns out, I had to actually study at this school. It was very focused on education and I hadn't realized that immediately. 

TASIS changed me in so many ways. It added culture to my life. I got to travel and see the world. I got to visit historical landmarks that changed the course of the world (WWII for example). I met and socialized with kids from all walks of life from all over the world. We had our "Boeing" group who's parents lived in Saudi and while we all had folks in a foreign country, we were all very different individuals. 

The Saudi group

My senior year at TASIS I decided to apply to be a prefect. I was stunned when I was chosen and thrilled to be a part of a somewhat elite group of people. 

Photo of a photo in my year book

I was assigned Upper DaNobli along with three other Prefects. The dorm floor we "managed" were sophomore girls. Being a prefect meant we didn't have weekend or week night check ins, we had a hot plate and fridge in our room, we didn't have a "lights out" time, we didn't have the strict rules other students had in general. 

Our room for the prefects was small, but fit us perfectly. I had a bed that was under the slant in the room. I had a nice little corner in the middle of the room. We had our own bathroom as well - which was nice but also a single bathroom for 4 teenage girls! 

TASIS taught me independence. My parents raised me to be independent and prepared me of this type of adventure. I was home sick for sure. I missed all my friends - definitely. I wouldn't know then just how much TASIS would be a part of my life. 

It taught me about tolerance. So many different cultures under one roof. So many different economical levels. There were the "rich" kids who's parents paid for them to be there. And then there was us Boeing kids who's parent's Company paid for us to be there.

It taught me about hard work and the pride of a job well done. It was a rough beginning for me academically. But because most kids were there to study, it made it easy to be a studious type. Don't get me wrong, I was never an A student. I kept my solid B reputation all through high school. And, truthfully there were some C's and D's (math - blech). 

It showed me the world. Because of living in a foreign country, I learned that traveling was something that would be a part of my life, some day. I wasn't naïve to think I'd immediately begin traveling. No, I knew that I'd have to work my way up to being able to afford to travel. But the travel bug had lodged itself firmly in my soul and there would be no going back. I thank my parents for this on a regular basis. 

So as I prepare for this trip to visit TASIS again, I am having fun reminiscing of the years I spent there. Remembering the friends - some who have left us already. Remembering the living on campus. Remembering the structure, the rules, the way of life. Remembering the food. All of it. It's coming back in waves and I'm taking this opportunity to write it all down. 

Over the next couple of weeks I'm going to continue this walk down memory lane and talk more about travel while at TASIS. All the places I got to visit before I was 18 years old. So fortunate. So thankful. 

Inventing Anna

I just finished binge watching Inventing Anna on Netflix. Our CEO had mentioned it months ago about how social media is playing a role with stealing identities etc. I was intrigued. 

Without giving away anything, the story is about Anna Delvey who claimed to be a German heiress and stole millions from NY social elites. Bottom line, she's a con artist. 

This story is based off a real person who did most of the things in the Netflix show. I mean, it is for TV so there are some "liberties" to make it more compelling. The story includes a journalist doing research for a much needed career enhancing article. 

I thought I'd watch episode one and see if it was worthy of my TV time. I was hooked. I was up way too late the first night and finished it the next night. 

Here's what I don't understand...how the HELL does someone get away with this? I mean she's a 20 something woman, mildly attractive, SUPER smart, VERY confident, etc. But she duped really smart people. 

I've been thinking about this for a couple of days. Like many I think I wouldn't fall for a con, but I'm not so sure anymore. I'd like to think I'd see the red flags, but really, I could just as easily excuse the red flags away. I mean I did it with an X boyfriend so I'm pretty sure I'd do it for something else. 

I want to believe I'm older and wiser and am very aware of phishing and scammers on Social Media, but, again, I'm really not so sure any more. My confidence has been shaken. 

How about you? Do you think you'd see a con artist a mile away? Do you think you'd see the red flags? 

If you haven't watched Inventing Anna I highly recommend it. 

What's for dinner?

No you didn't accidentally click on the cooking blog. This story isn't going to be about food. Actually, that's not completely true. It is about food, but not about FOOD. Got that? 

Two years ago, a friend of mine on FB was looking for something to look forward to during the pandemic. She started asking daily, what's for dinner? 

Not too surprisingly we all responded with our dinner plans. She's in Chicago as are most her friends, so by the time I post, I'm usually one of the last ones. 

There's a couple of things I love about this. And lucky you are going to get a list. 

1. The number of people who respond with what they're having for dinner. Some with photos. Some with links to recipes. Some with a simple, "cereal". 
2. The variety of food people eat. Some days there aren't any duplicates of food being eaten. Most days there's at least one pizza and one leftovers. The "leftovers" happen more towards the end of the week.
3. Some post a photo of their perfectly set table. 
4. Many will share a recipe if you ask. 
5. I've gained a friend or two just by conversations in the thread about what we're having for dinner.
6. SEVERAL times I haven't a clue what people are talking about. Especially if they say something like "Gino's for dinner. OMG so good." Who's Gino? What's Gino? And how to do I enjoy Gino's?
7. The fact that two years and we're still responding. I actually look forward to her post to share what I had for dinner. I share regardless of whether I'm making something new (I usually share the link to the recipe) or whether I ordered out. Or whether I ate a handful of nuts and a piece of bread for dinner. 
8. There's no judgement! None. No one ever says, "You ate that?"
9. She plans to do this for as long as people post. There are some days where there are just a few (like 20) and some days where there are like 40+.
10. It's an odd club to be a part of, but I love it and wish I would have thought of it. 

I've been really thinking about why this makes me so happy, but it does. Maybe it's because early in the pandemic things were scary and this was something easy to not have to worry about. Or because I love food and love to see what people do with it. 

My most favorite post "a can of spaghettios out of the can". 

So yesterday was the two year anniversary. That's a lot of posting if you think about it. She's only missed one or two and even then "miss" means she posted like around 10 her time, not around dinner. Still we all posted our dinners. 

I'm glad she came up with something so simple. And something I look forward to every night. I'll keep posting for as long as she does. I've gained some great recipes to try and some fun food chatter. 

It's My Life...

On Jan 1, 2022 I vowed to write more in this blog. I enjoy writing, but often run out of ideas as to what to write about. Back in the day before Social Media, the blog discussed my daily life. Social media fills that role now. 

Every now and then a topic will come to mind and I'd write it down on a list. Never actually writing about it, but making a beautiful, (and long) list. I keep thinking I'll pull out one of those topics and go to town. 

Then I started thinking about my mortality. Anyone who knows me knows that's a hot topic for me. Mostly the making sure you're prepared for it. Well, actually making sure that you leave your loved ones with as little to think about as possible so they can spend more time morning your loss. 

Ahem. 

When mom was alive, somewhere in her late 50's early 60's she started talking more and more about her life. Stories I'd never heard before. I loved hearing those stories. I'd often mock her for whatever ridiculous hair do or clothing she'd talk about. When she died I found two "journals" that were basically prompts to tell your life story. What a treasure! She didn't answer all the questions, but she answered most. 

Then I got to thinking about scrapbooking and how it's telling a story via pictures and what not. But it doesn't tell the "good stuff" like, first kiss, or first job, etc.  Some of the topics on my list are around those good ideas - just not all that many and really not all that interesting. 

I decided, then, that I needed some guidance on writing my life story. I got this funky book that has all the types of prompts that Mom had in the journals I found. 

I doubt I'll answer the questions in order and I'm sure I won't answer all the questions. I mean there's an entire section on Marriage and one on parenting. Though I may write about parenting two worthless, good for nothing felines. 

Some of the questions are really making me think hard. Dig deep in my memories. The first question is "What is your earliest childhood memory? What comes to mind as you remember this?"

And here is where I over think it. I often wonder if I have an actual memory, or if that memory is a photo. You know what I mean? I see some photos of my childhood and I think I remember that time, but I can't tell if I do or the picture is the memory. I know, confusing right?

Anyhow, I'll start posting some of these stories as soon as I can remember some of them. The first question is causing me some deep thought. 

Would you wanna...

The book club selection this month was a book called In an Instant by Suzanne Redfearn. It's a book about a tragic accident that causes family and friends to make very difficult decisions in the face of their survival or someone else's. The book itself was a great read. If you're a reader, I highly recommend it. 

At book club as we went through all the questions (yes we do more than drink wine at book club. We do actually talk about the book.) and we all, naturally, had our own opinions. The questions were very much about "what would you do" in the face of your survival or the survival of someone else. It's not as easy of a question to answer as you might think. There are a lot of conditional situations that may change your response. 

What I quickly found when answering these questions was that I probably have a stronger self-preservation (or narcissism) feeling than the Moms in the room. And a stronger, maybe more selfish, self-preservation feeling than my loyal BFF who puts everyone first. Ahem. I had a rather "all men for themselves" kinda attitude. 

The story is told from the perspective of someone who died in the crash. She sees and hears everything from all the family / friends and ultimately "moves on" after her funeral. She sees humans as they really are. Their secrets, lies, and everything else shoved in the closet for no one else to see.  The last question on our list of discussion questions was "would you want to attend your funeral?"

Well, would you?

I immediately said yes. When I was asked to explain, I jokingly said, "Because I want to make sure you all follow my last wishes and have a big ass party and play my really funny playlist." (My playlist has songs like Another One Bites the Dust and Highway to Hell - I'm funny that way). 

I was mostly joking, but I'm not sure they all thought I was. I mean, my niece does call my "death book" my "I-Want-To-Be-In-Control-Even-When-I'm-Dead-Book". 

Then the BFF said something really profound and I think we can all relate. She said, she would because she'd want to see if she "made a difference" in someone's life."

The next day I asked her what "made a difference" meant to her. See I had pondered it all night as to what "made a difference" means to the average NOT Mother Teresa person. Does driving someone to the airport when they overslept for their flight mean I've "made a difference"? I hardly think so. Does holding a friends hair while she pukes "making a difference"? Unlikely. So what does it mean? 

And after I asked all those silly questions, she wasn't really sure what she meant. Then it hit her - she really wanted to see if people would remember her, and remember her fondly. 

To me my BFF is one of the most fiercely loyal, good natured, loving person who tends to aggravate me a lot (we're opposite in almost every way you see). I couldn't figure out why anyone would think poorly of her. Me? I have no doubt. I've had my fair share of bitchy times with some folks. 

But she hit the nail on the head. I think we all want to make sure we're remembered. It's one of the reasons I scrapbook. I want to tell my stories from my perspective. 

I thought about my trip to Tucson and thought about ALL the stories - funny stories - we shared about Mom and Dad. So many quirky things they both did and we now celebrate. 

So, yes. I would want to be at my funeral celebration. I would like to take attendance and see who were the people who wanted to celebrate my life. And how did I touch them? What stories did they have to tell? I think we all assume we're good people and that people love us. I want to hear the stories where I pissed them off, or where I crossed the line without knowing? I'd feel bad I'm sure and maybe, just maybe I wouldn't haunt those people. 

Why have you forsaken me...

I could feel it happening. As the plane slowly descended into Phoenix. The heart gripping reality that I was going to Arizona and there would be no Mom there to see. My heart felt tight. Sad. I know this feeling well. It happens frequently when I do things that once was a part of mom’s life or was something significant in our lives. It’s that cold memory that bubbles up that you will be doing this without her. In her spirit maybe, but without her.

The plane landed without incident and I was thrust into the hot Phoenix air. That dessert smell and warm arid air reminds me of home. It's a trigger for Mom memories. I pushed those memories aside and got on with what I needed to do. Get a car and meet a friend for lunch.

During lunch I kept any conversations about my mom to a minimum. My emotions were on a hair trigger and there was no telling what would get me going. I didn't want to be a slobbering, crying mess over my enchiladas. My friend and I met at a sketchy looking Mexican restaurant called Cocina Madrigal. It has rave reviews on Yelp and she’d been dying to try it. Yelp was not wrong. We started with Oaxaca Fundido (basically bubbling cheese of goodness) and we both had the Birria Beef enchiladas. So amazing. The flavor of birria is one that I love and not one I get a lot of up in the Pacific Northwest.

Birria Burritos from Cocina Madrigal

My scrapping, former work buddy, scrapping enabler, Anandi. 

We chatted on and off about work, why I was down, and scrapbooking. But we stayed away from any "mom" talk. She knows. She’s aware that my mom had been in Tucson and that I miss her horribly. Whether she steered away from Mom talk intentionally or not, it was nice to just sit and chat about anything and everything. But I'm secretly glad she didn't ask any “mom” questions.

I drove her back to her house and we hugged goodbye after a tour of her gorgeous house. As I returned to the restaurant to pick up Janet, I wondered why I felt relatively "ok". I anticipated tears. I anticipated sadness. And all I had was a very full tummy and a bit of heartburn. I decided to not wallow in it and just see where the emotional roller coaster would take me. It was anybody's guess. 

I arrived back at the restaurant and met up with Janet and her friends she had been down to visit. I was worried that the moment I saw her I’d lose it (I could tell you a story about her offering me peanuts while cleaning out Mom's house. She left the room to get them and I was fine. She came back in and I was a blubbering mess. To this day we joke about not bringing me peanuts.) I opened the door to a whiff of fried tortillas, cheese and spice expecting to feel something. Nope. Nothing. I kept those emotions in check. “huh”, I thought, “ I might be getting better at this.” But how long could it last? How long before the dam burst open? We were seeing a bunch of family and friends that were close to Mom. We would be going to places that Mom went. Places she took us to. Where in all those times would I lose it? If not now, when? 

I was prepared though. I had Kleenex in my back pack and I was ready for any level of cry. Be it gross cry or simple sniffle. Because that's how grief works. You don't know when it'll hit you and you don't know if it'll be a light touch on your shoulder of it it'll take you to your knees. 

As Janet and I drove south towards Tucson, the scenery is amazing. It’s beautiful really. It’s no PNW beautiful, but a different type of beauty. Desert beauty. I love the desert. Always have. I think it’s because we lived in Lancaster for so many years and I grew to appreciate all the desert had. But the Tucson desert is different. It’s scattered with these crazy saguaro cacti that stand so boldly. Proud of the years it has taken for them to get to where they are. The years without water. And yet, they survived. I just love them. Each one has their own unique personality. None the same. 

We reached our hotel, The Day’s Inn & Suites in Marana. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean. We dropped our luggage, took a moment to refresh ourselves and “rest” after travel.

We had a list of food places we wanted to visit. Food was a big deal in our family life. If you knew either of my parents you'd know that food was what we bonded over. It was the way we showed love and appreciation. It's comfort. 

So it should be no big surprise that we had a list of places we had to go. Each restaurant has a story about Mom. Each one “special” for it’s own reason. They won’t mean anything to anyone else, but they mean something to us. Our list included In N Out, Cracker Barrel, Sonoran Hot dogs from Guero Canelo, and a steak house right off the I10 freeway– though we couldn’t remember the name of it.

Our first stop was In N Out. Mom LOVED In N Out. There was a 100% guarantee that we’d stop there during some point of my visits with mom. Always. They didn't have them in Tucson when they first moved down there and I can remember how excited she was when she first heard one was coming to Tucson. It was a good hour from her house. All the way across town. (And “across town” in Tucson is not an easy feat. It’s spread out.) Still, she was going. She didn’t care. She loaded dad into the car and off they went to find her beloved In N Out. They then started popping up in locations closer to her, which made her quest just that much easier.

Me? I think they’re good burgers, but I’m not IN LOVE with them like mom was. In N Out now is a stop in honor of mom. We go because she would have. We get the double double because she would have. We get a chocolate shake because she would have. And we get fries because…you got it…she would have. This time though Janet got the double double and chocolate shake. I got a simple cheese burger and fries (well done) for us to share. 

As we sat eating the burgers mom loved with the workers in the crisp white uniforms with a red apron held together with a huge safety pin and the smell of fries animal style in the air, we talked about her and how it was a given we’d find an In N Out. Surely this would get my tears flowing. This was Mom. This was something anyone who mentioned In N Out would say her name after. I was sure I’d start tearing up. But there was nothing. Nothing. What’s happening? Have I cried all I can? Are there no more tears for mom? I consoled myself with knowing it was still early in our trip and that I should continue to be prepared because, well grief. Grief is a cruel mistress.

The next day we got up had a horrible breakfast at the hotel and we headed to Mt. Lemmon to find the vista point where we scattered Mom's ashes. As I brushed my teeth I was thinking about 5 years ago and how so very different I am now. The things that have happened in my life that Mom would be so proud of - and maybe some she wouldn't be. 

The day we scattered Mom's ashes was windy, rainy and blustery. It seemed fitting considering the task we had in front of us. I mean Hollywood shows us funerals and it's always raining, so why couldn't real life be like that. I had absolutely no idea where this vista point was. I had done some research and we figured out how to get to Mt. Lemmon. As we drove along we passed a Safeway and we both yelled, "That's where we met to carpool!". We knew we were going the right way. 

We started up the windy road that leads to the top of Mt. Lemmon. It's a narrow, two line road that transports you up the side of the rugged mountain. Around every hair pin turn I expected to find this vista. And then, there it was! The Babad Do'ag vista. We found our way. I pushed all emotion down again. I just needed to be there for a moment. Remembering her. As we parked and got out of the car we were hit by a what felt like a gale force wind. My god it's windy up there. We grabbed out crab hats and started walking toward the trail that we walked down to scatter her ashes. Then we laughed because part of the trees around there were scorched. We joked that mom was definitely there. We spent a couple of minutes there. We took our crab photo and we hopped back in the car and took off.

View from where we scattered Mom's ashes

Nothing. No tears. No thought of tears. Nothing. Dry as the desert. By now I'm starting to wonder if, by chance, I had turned off all those emotions too much. 

Next stop was to visit our cousins Gary and Jeannette. They live in the same retirement community mom did. In fact, they’re the reason mom moved there. We knew we'd drive by the last house she lived in and I knew this would be the time I lose it. It just had to be. I had so many fond memories there tied up with the worst weeks of my life cleaning out her place. 

We found it easily. Janet remembered half the directions and I remembered half. I slowly rolled past it making comments about how it hasn't changed and "was it always blue and white?". Anything to keep my mind away from drudging up all those old, painful memories. 

After lunch we followed Gary and Jeannette back to their place to sit and chat for a bit. Gary was dad's cousin and was like a brother to him. These two have been a significant part of my life for so many years that I've lost count. Gary is a quiet, kind man with a head full of graying hair. His smile makes you feel welcome and that he was very interested in anything you had to say. Jeannette was the classy one. She was always put together. Nails always done. Not a hair on her head dared to be out of place. Her style was refined without being pretentious. But Jeannette was dying. The doctors diagnosed her with a brain tumor several months ago. She opted to not undergo any treatment of any kind. The doctors told her it wouldn't really gain her any more months. They told her she'd lose her ability to talk and walk within weeks. And yet, sitting across from me in their small park model was a woman who's determined to not let cancer win. She shows no sign of slowing down. Her hair may be not so in place anymore, but I somehow think she doesn't mind. 

We sat and talked about the old days. Recounting funny memories of dad buying a dozen pineapples just because they were on sale and how Mom sent everyone home that Easter with a pine apples. We talked about their daughter and how well she was doing and about their grandson's pending visit. It was a delightful time. 

After we noticed Gary falling asleep as we chatted, we decided it was time to go. We hugged each other tightly. Jeannette whispering in my ear how very glad she was that we took the time to come visit them. That hug. That strong, unwavering hug. I won't soon forget it. I felt, immediately, that would be the last hug I ever had from her. And having lost a good hugger in my life (BigBro), I knew not to squander for a minute that time wrapped in her arms. 

We drove out of the park and I felt a little looser. Like a tightly wound yo-yo that had found it's last drop. I felt joy in a place that had held such sadness for me. 

Jeannette, Gary, Janet and myself

Crab shot for mom.

While chatting with Gary and Jeannette, Gary was able to remember the steak house off I10 that we used to go to. The Silver Saddle. The plan was set. Janet and I would go back to the hotel for a little break (grabbing some coffee on our way) and we'd eat out at the Silver Saddle. 

This steak house...I can't even tell you how good it is. It's PACKED almost every night and on a Saturday night you were sure to have an hour wait. I dropped Janet at the door and drove in circles looking for a spot to park the horrid little rental car we had. 

Inside the restaurant I didn't see Janet immediately, but saw a sign pointing to the cocktail lounge. I've traveled with Janet enough to know she was already seated with an ice cold margarita on the rocks in her hands. I sat down next to hear and ordered a beer. We had about a 60 minute wait so we figured we'd order an appetizer. That was a rookie mistake. We should have known that would fill us up and not leave room for the steak and potato. We sat in the bar not talking about anything in particular. It wasn't until we were seated that I started (did you see that? I started...) the conversation about Mom. All the times we'd been to this restaurant. Who was with us? Why we came? And on and on. I felt no need to cry. No lingering shutters in my throat that announced sobbing was on it's way. Nothing. Nada. Zip. 

The "dinner" salad came with fresh baked rolls, and not long after the 10oz sirloin came cooked to perfection with a fully loaded baked potato on the side. Mom probably would have ordered the prime rib, but you can bet she'd have had the salad and that fully loaded potato as "loaded" as they could get it. I am not sure what exactly they do to their steaks. They don't season them in any way. The grill is out where you can watch them drop your steak on and you can watch as they grill it. The whole place smells of burning wood and cooking steak fat. And when you roll yourself out of this place and regret eating every single bite, you too smell like burning wood and steak fat. 

Back at the hotel in our stretchy pants, we sat quietly. Each checking FB, emails, texts, etc. I sat wondering about Mom and what she'd have done in the last 5 years if she was still with us. I wondered if she'd still be working at the Mail Room at the Voyager. I wondered if I'd still come down to visit every Christmas and each day I was down visiting we'd have a "date" with some friend or relative who was just "dying to see me". My Mom. The social butterfly. 

Sunday we woke to another beautiful day in the desert. The wind was blowing, the sun was out and the sky was blue. Today we'd be going to have a Sonoran Hot Dog for lunch and visit with our family friend Roger. 

But before we did all that, Janet jokingly said, "we should stop by Sprouts in honor of your dad."

I know this trip seems to be all about Mom, and it is in so many ways. But dad lived in Tucson too for a while and he LOVED Sprouts. Well, Dad loved to grocer shop. Which is where I get it from. He'd get the Tuesday paper that had all the grocery sales in it and he'd write his list. He'd drive all the way across town to save 3 cents on tomatoes. And then he'd buy 10 lbs of them. 

We found the Sprouts dad frequented and we talked about how often Mom would tell us to NOT let dad talk us into stopping at Sprouts for "just a few things". Remember those pineapples? Yep. Dad bought them at Sprouts. 

Dad's favorite produce location.

Now it was time for lunch. Off we went to Guero Canelo. 

carne asada street tacos
and a Sonoran Hot dog

I wish I could remember how Mom discovered this place. I'm sure one of her friends introduced her to the Sonoran Hot dog and the rest is, as they say, history. This place was almost always lunch and was never not on the list to go to when I came down. She took everyone and anyone to this place. None of us from the PNW had any idea what a Sonoran Dog was. And Mom was going to introduce the world to them. 

A Sonoran Hot dog is, as you can guess, from the Sonora region in Mexico. It's a hotdog wrapped in bacon and grilled. It's then put in a bililo- style bun. It's a little sweeter than a normal hotdog bun and has the cut in the top, so it's like a bowl. The dog is topped with pinto beans, onions, pico de gallo, mayo and mustard. It sounds odd, I know, but that combination of ingredients is unlike anything you've ever had. 

We also wanted to have some of their street tacos. So we opted for a single taco each and then we'd split the hot dog. Their street tacos are full of meat. We put on the cabbage, some pico de gallo and squirted some lime juice on them! These are the street tacos that all other street tacos are compared to. I've found some very close here in the PNW, but none really compare. 

Full of Mexican food, we drove up Oracle to Oro Valley to see Roger. We were early so we thought we'd swing by the Catalina house. This was the first house they bought in Tucson. It sits up on a hill overlooking the Catalina mountains. Mom called them "her mountains." She loved the view from this house. This house holds a lot of memories too. It's where dad died. It's where we had countless family gatherings. Where dad made his tritip or ribs or standing rib. It's where we celebrated Christmas. Where we laughed, cried, and drank a little too much. It was home. 

The Catalina house sitting high on the hill.
It was a "desert rose" color - and now it's blue.

The view of the Catalinas. You can see Mt.
Lemmon's snow covered top peeking out.

We parked just down from the house. There was no way I was driving up the road to it. I wasn't really sure I could even see the house without some tears. Instead, as I sat at the bottom of that hill and looked up I was reminded of all the love in that house. All the hugs, all the laughter, all the food, all the everything that Mom and Dad gave to us, their family. I think everyone has a story or two about being at that house, and that makes me smile. 

After the afternoon with Roger, we had dinner plans with good family friends Jack & Suzi. Mom met Jack and Suzi when her cousin Ted was visiting. Jack and Ted when to high school together. And as Mom did, once she met you, you were family. Jack and Suzi became part Wraspir. Mom and Dad traveled with them all over the place. Then when Dad died, they became a sounding board for Mom. Suzi and mom were the best of friends. 

Mexican food again and again we were stuffed with real, authentic Mexican food. When Jack and Suzi walked in we instantly noticed Suzi had a brace around her neck. I looked at Janet and said, "What has she done now?" Suzi is a notorious clutz. This time, she tripped while at the trainers and nicked a nerve in her neck. 

Suzi is slowing down. Her dementia was obvious 5 years ago. Mom was concerned about it and spoke frequently with Jack about it. Having gone through it with Dad, she knew the signs. Now, 5 years later, it's getting worse. I just smiled after the 6th time she asked how long we were in town and patiently answered her, "We leave on Monday."  Her humor is still with her though. When we asked how long she had to wear the brace she told us she could take it off when she was eating. Then with a gleam in her eye said, "I think I should add some meals to my day."

Molinto Special

Jack, Suzi, Janet and me

The two of them go together like peanut butter and jelly. Married for a thousand years. They are perfect together. And they make me smile. My heart was full that day. As I hugged Suzi, I was reminded of my hug with Jeannette and wondered if this was the last hug with her too. 

After all that. Still no tears. I sat in my hotel bed with the Olympics playing in the background thinking about the last three days. Wondering why were no tears coming? Had I beaten grief? Or had I gotten to the point where tears were no longer needed to remember Mom? Where remembering now was not followed by days of uncontrollable crying and sadness. Where remembering no longer made my heart ache. Did this make me a bad person? Wasn't I supposed to feel sad all the time? 

The answer came somewhat easy to me. It's not acceptance. It's not denial. It's not anger or bargaining. It's not bad. And I'm not bad. I've just reached that point where Mom is always with me. Where I no longer needed to shed a tear every time I thought about her. I was stronger now. Grief will still be there, but it won't make me cry in the middle of a store with strangers looking at me like I lost my mind. 

Monday we headed home. Janet's flight left a couple of hours before mine. We got to the Tucson airport early - thank god because the security line was insane. We had a beer and recounted the last couple of days and all the fun we had. As we sat there I thought about all the people we got to see this trip and I think about how each hug that I gave each one of them really felt like it might be the last hug. 

All of them aging gracefully - or in Suzi's case not so gracefully. All of them slowly changing. All of them I love you so very much and will miss them dearly. And yet I’m very glad that I get this opportunity to come down and visit with them perhaps for the last time. 

This whole time my emotions have been in check I have not tear it up or cried. 

Janet's group to board was called. She walked down the hallway to the plane and turned the corner. She was out of sight. I picked up my backpack and burst into tears.