A love letter to SML

Ode to Sun Mountain Lodge: A love letter to the place I love 

This place is our sanctuary. We've been coming here forever because it is beautiful and fun but also because it delivers us. We always want to have the library to ourselves with a raging fire, but we know that to share this space is truly how it survives. And it must always survive. 

So, when you come to the lodge you have many choices of where to stay - many experiences and each has their benefits. There are no TVs. Just a game room and the outdoors - it is perfection. 

When you stay in the Mt. Robinson Building there are no kids allowed. It's close enough to walk to the lodge but just far enough you can have some romance. It has been a dozen years since we've stayed there because once we introduced the boys to this place there was no coming without them. 

In the Gardner building, there is ski parking outside your door and uninterrupted views of the valley. Once when we stayed there, Cooper and Thatcher were playing with army men outside on the deck and lost one over the edge. Tim had to find a flashlight and attempt a reconnaissance. Unfortunately, they were never found. One day, I'll bring more army men and stage them for Cooper to find so his sad memory from his childhood is replaced with gladness. 

Another time we stayed in the Suite in the Gardner Building - that must have been Mason's first trip. it was just a bit bigger. Room for all five of us. 

It's hard to sit here now realizing all the growing up that has happened here. We went from dating to married. We brought Thatcher here as a baby and borrowed a rickety crib that they wheeled in for us. We've had local babysitters come and stay so we could enjoy our fancy Saturday dinner. They went from being so little that they could share a twin daybed - heads on either end, feet not touching to full grown men. 

Can you really write a love letter to a place? Can you share love with others, will they feel the depths of your emotions. Can you actually love a place so deeply? Only yes and of course, no. We do want to share this experience with all the people we love and enough others so that people can come and enjoy but only the people who will love it like we do. This place is magical. From the amazing snow covered vistas to the old beat up shelters you can explore at the Homestead or by the water tower. 

We've been here for Easter and our old friend Andy dressed up as the bunny and the kids found eggs on the lawns and in the trees and bushes. We made it our tradition to come here for the Super Bowl- the 1st year it was just a table set up with a TV and food and drinks delivered. I think there was a Super Bowl before that, in the grill but Tim doesn't remember that, alas. But a dozen years ago the one table turned into a party; We've come each year and cheered on Seahawks and Packers, cheered against Patriots and made friends with the regulars. Those weekends we'd drive in and ski on Saturdays, fancy Saturday dinner with any child over 13. Then a massage for me and line up for the party. We always sat in the back corner - at first because of the baby and littles and then after awhile because it was our spot. The weekend eventually became longer and we'd come on Thursday and leave on Monday, we'd get an extra snow day that way. 

The boys went from being pulled or carried to skiing on their own. The worst for Tim was the years when he'd have a backpack and the pulk or 2 in the pulk - going up the hill from the cabin or even down with that much weight! There was the year after my ACL injury that I was skiing behind Coop in the tracks and he came to an abrupt halt. I fell to the ground to keep from leveling him and broke my tail bone in the process. Dinner was less than comfortable that night. 

There was the Monday morning skiing where we took off from the cabins directly across the lake and skied as five only to realize on the turn that we'd been going with the wind. The trip was slow and hard. Mason had to follow in someone's shadow as to not be blown away. And yet as we all collapsed into the car for the ride home we were in hysterics over the fact that we had just done that to ourselves. Right now I sit in the main lodge, Tim and Mason are skiing - I've had a massage - Coop is here studying and writing. This is the second year without Thatcher and we've taken to staying in the lodge again. We moved from the solitude of the Robinson rooms to the convenience of the lodge over to the Gardner rooms-we started small and moved to the largest room. Finally we made the decision to stay in the cabins and that saved us for a decade. But with Thatch going to college we felt we needed a change so we wouldn't be missing him so much. It was the last normal thing we did pre-pandemic. The boys laugh at me because I don't remember the Super Bowl games. it is true - I don't. I have vague recollections of colors and plays but my memories are filled with images of Mason running to the scoreboard to see who might win something after the latest score. Images of ping pong and pool, changing for the hot tub under the stairs and communing in the hot tub after a thrilling or a horrible loss. I remember waiting endlessly for Tim to pick us up after the hot tub and worrying that he'd crashed on the road to the cabins. He hadn't. He was just talking Thatcher through the worst goal line play in Super Bowl history. I remember quick visits with Amber, Brian and the kids, or the year Grandma and Grandpa came. I see the sign that awaits us to reserve our spot. I see their smiling faces after a day of kids camp with Andy. 

 Back when the big were little - before Mason - Tim and I skied together and Coop and Thatch would have kids camp. It consisted of skiing, hot chocolate, a hayride and often "power pellets" to help them reach their destination! When we first signed them up there would be more kids but as the years went along the numbers dwindled. One year it was just our boys and Andy's daughter. I don't think they do kids camp anymore but Mason would have loved it. For a couple years we got him a lesson so he could see what it was like and I always pack M&Ms or Mike and Ikes to serve as "power pellets." While he was in his lesson, I'd stay up top skiing or snowshoeing so I could catch a glimpse of him. He always loved being with his instructor and waving. 

 I stopped skiing a few years back but I still think about it. I remember coming up over a ridge and seeing untouched snow sparkling like diamonds in the sea and looking at Tim and thinking we had quite an adventure ahead of us. I can also see me taking off my skis and walking down the hill to Beaver Pond because I was too afraid I'd crash. I remember that first year newly in Washington from Arizona and skiing down to the cabins and explaining to my new boyfriend that there was no way I'd be able to ski back up and truly he'd need to go get the car. I'm surprised he didn't leave me there. There were years when he had to work on Mondays and would ski up to the lodge from the cabin with his laptop in a backpack on his back just to get to wifi - I think one year it was because they were launching Via in stores. It was back then that we thought work mattered most. We would sacrifice time in this magical place because we couldn't say no to demands from work. 

 In fact, we almost didn't come one year. My friend, Heidi, drove me to work on a Friday morning so Tim and the boys could pick me up and we could leave by noon. That morning, I was called into the superintendent's office and they told me that they were going another direction with my building. They had made a mistake picking me to lead without letting the team have a say. Because they did it that way there were people I'd never win over and they needed to make a change. I could have the weekend to figure out how to spin it. It was the only job I ever wanted to be a school principal and it was disappearing. I was a mess.They told me not to go back to the building and just go home but I had no car. I had to call Tim to come get me and explain over the speakerphone with my kids in the car what was happening.To his credit he came and got me and took me home. I crawled into bed and sobbed. He came in to check on me and cancel the trip here. But somehow I rallied - we still came - I remember sending a message to my family and friends while we drove along Lake Entiat. I remember crawling into bed at the cabin when we arrived and just laying there. I remember excusing the boys from dinner so Tim and I could talk. And I remember a massage on Sunday morning. And I remember panicking. I couldn't breathe.The room was closing in - I couldn't do it - the trauma I'd been dealt was coming through my body. It's been six years and I still start to panic during a massage. I have a counselor and some anxiety meds and that helps but each time I have to explain.They know me here so it's easier than at a spa or some other resort. This place has healing properties. I can't imagine staying home that weekend. I can't imagine. So, no, I don't remember the football teams or scores, but I remember feeling happy and safe and knowing if I have a chance to heal it will be partially because of this place. 

 And here we are again. No Super Bowl - it was a few weeks back and COVID is in play so no party. We came on Thursday and will leave on Monday. Because we don't have the obligation of the Super Bowl party - there has been more relaxing, more time in the snow, more amazing adventures, more writing, more reading, more chocolate chip cookie dough truffles. I don't know if we'll be back for another Super Bowl. I'm not even sure they'll do it again. I kind of think it was over before COVID but they kept it for us. We don't need the Super Bowl to have our perfect visit - in fact at this point, I don't know if I'd want it - next year it will just be us and Mason. Can you justify the entire back corner for just us 3? And I don't know if we will make it back at all. It's been a year of this pandemic. We lost my Uncle Bill a year ago and my dad six months ago. I learned during this time that doing what you love matters - being by those you love matter. I'm pursuing my next career move and that's at ASU. Not only is it my alma mater it is where Thatch goes to college and where Coop will go in the fall. I still love being a building principal and I see all the amazing things ASU is doing and I want to be a part of it. We learned so very well that fit matters. We fit here and at ASU but in order for me to pursue this dream we will move so far from this mountain oasis that we may not be back regularly. It is hard to say goodbye to people, I've done a lot of that in my life but to say goodbye to a place that holds so many of your memories is much the same- you have to pack them up, make sense of them and let others go. Coop says we can find a place to ski - Flagstaff and Sedona are close. And he's right but none will be this place. None will have the memory of our best dinner ever. Tim was home on leave from Iraq - we came here just the two of us and made a reservation, like we do. This very special year our server was Bob and we were up for the banter. He learned we'd been coming here for years and that Tim was only home for two weeks and yet we found a way to make it to the lodge. He proceeded to serve us the most amazing meal with special bites made by the chef. Wine pairings for each course and palate cleansers in between-we talked and laughed and ate and drank. Every bite was delicious. We ended the evening with dessert and port. As we went to settle up we were surprised to discover that Bob had waived the entire night. We don't know if it was a joint decision or if Bob covered it himself but it was that night as we staggered back to our Mt Robinson Room holding onto cars so we wouldn't slip on the ice - it was then that we decided we would always come back. We have spent more money over the years to cover that dinner and we could tell stories about so many others, but Bob was the guy we credit with starting our tradition. 

 So as we drive away tomorrow, I'm left wondering when we will return next. Nothing is guaranteed - nothing is for sure but this place is magic and I hold it so very close to my heart. Thank you to Sun Mountain Lodge for years of memories, for providing our family with a place we adore; with babysitters who read all the Sandra Boynton books and played hide and seek; to the servers and desk staff always willing to take our picture or engage with our boys. To Barb for ensuring our football space, to Andy, to Bob, to everyone in the ski shop who recognizes us even with masks to the team members who have their own memories of three boys learning to ski, running the game room, drinking all the Shirley Temples and cheering loudly for Seahawks and Packers. Thank you for the trees and the snow, the blue skies and the space to explore. Thank you for being a place when I wanted to shut down, for applying your magic so I could be open to the universe. I'm grateful for the trip we made here with my parents one Labor Day while Tim was gone so they always know where we are talking about when we say Sun Mountain. 

There will be other places with quilts on the beds and beautifully crafted furniture, there will be raging fires and delicious cocktails but they will never feel like this place. Our home in the snow where we've raised our boys, where we found our voices, shared our love and always gained peace. So this is my love letter to you. I wish you so many days ahead filled with couples and families as they find their memories like we have on your beautiful grounds. Until we see you again - and we will - May the sun always shine like diamonds on the snow, may the wind always sound so lovely through the trees. Save us a spot. Always.

 #writeeveryday #writelikeyouarerunningoutoftime #connectionconversations #liveacreativelife #mynextbook #writerswrite

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Steps.

3119 Howard St. 

 

My granny lived in an apartment building for most of my life. It was in the heart of San Diego on a plot of land that once was her home. At some point after she had lost two husbands my grandfather had the house razed and they built a complex--with just 6 units. She lived in apartment A and managed the others as her income through a long lived life. The tenants were known to her and she would tell me about them. I got to be friends with many as I spent many days with her while my mom worked. She was 73 when I was born and yet she’d take me everywhere around town--we rode the bus as she never drove. We would go to the zoo, Carnation for ice cream and more often than not to SeaWorld. We would watch the killer whale shows and she’d let me get as close as I wanted. When we would return back to her home she’d have chores for me to do--I suspect so she could take a break but I never remember her nap or show that she was tired. She would make afternoon coffee inviting the downstairs neighbor in. I’d sit with them and have coffee with mocha Mix and sugar cubes. There would always be cookies. At some point I’d be bored and she’d say it was time to do the stairs. I wonder now if she cleaned the stairs when I wasn’t there or if it was a job she invented to keep a precocious 4 year old busy . . . She’d fill a tub of water with warm soapy water and place it at the top of the cement stairs. There would be a sponge and I would get it wet and wipe the dirt off the stairs. As I swiped the way she showed me, I’d sprint back to the top and rinse the sponge, sprinting back down to do the next stair. When the water would darken we’d dump it out together--over the ledge. As I got older, I could carry the basin down to the stair I was working on and take it with me as I cleaned. Once all the stairs were wet--and I say wet because it was cement--they didn't sparkle--I could then turn my attention to the ornate handrail and railing. It was pink and metal and super grimy. It was where you could see your work progress. I never missed a spot and when it came time for her to review my work--she’d emerge from her 2 bedroom apartment that I can still picture in my mind and she’d smile and tell me it was a job well done. Did I want to do the backstairs too? I’d insist. She reminded me to be quiet as I worked so I wouldn’t bother Mr. Rosa in the back because he worked nights and was sleeping. I’d rush off to fill the basin. Years later the job was passed to my brothers and then she moved to a condo at the beach and we’d use the elevator to reach her. I imagine someone walking by and seeing a bright eyed four year old cleaning stairs now and what our minds would do. I imagine my own children and the chores I have them do. I wonder if they would find as much satisfaction in those cement stairs.

Raising boys

 There are all these sappy, sentimental things going around on the internet about saying goodbye to the parts of your child that are gone forever and embracing them for who they are now. Becoming the mom that they need today. Well, I’m not sure that is even possible. You see, my child, my children, are complex and hard. They are loving and smart. They are sweet and articulate, but they are not easy and in order for me to be the best parent I can be on any given day means drawing on the children they were. I have to remember the sweet hugs and notes left in my room when they are torturing each other. I have to remember staying up late reading in a fort when they are not turning in their homework. So, while I understand the desire to skip forward, I, instead, think about who we have become together. 

I want to think that their childhoods have been a picture that we look back on with fondness but I know there are just as many missed moments as happy memories. I am a realist and I want to remember their childhoods for those moments when I was less than stellar right alongside the ones that were made for Facebook. And as much as I know and want to do, I can only be the mom that I am today. We can only be the family we are today and most of the time, it is pretty amazing.

Just this morning my 9-year-old put on blue sweatpants with a red and black shirt while I was holding black sweats--dude, this will match better. To which he explained that he goes to school with other 9 and 10-year-olds and they do not care. At all. I handed him the black ones and retreated. He emerged for breakfast in the blue ones. And I drove him to school in my PJs, kleenex in hand because if they don’t care, why do I?

The sentimental will say that they want to remember the kid that slept like a champ and the toddler that gave sloppy kisses, the preteen that struggled with friendships and the teen that learned to embrace them. Unfortunately, that isn’t our story, but I still love my memories of raising up these crazy boys.

As we begin to say goodbye to the one that made us parents, I do have memories of the days gone by, regrets as well, but I know we did the best we could.

I do miss the little dude that I could carry around but who always wanted to do it himself. The one that could sleep like a champ, but too many times, we listened to cry it out while our cat sat at the top of the stairs meowing along with him because why were we just sitting there. He learned and even now sleeps like a champ. I can still sneak a glance at his sweetness while he is asleep if I don’t first trip on a week’s worth of clothes as I navigate his room. 

Why do some memories stand out more than others? Like the day when he was 6 weeks old and we were moving from Seattle to Duvall and all the people came to help but all I could do was weep. He in his bucket and me next to him. Something fell over and almost hit him in the head. I’m pretty sure it was a gun, in a case, but whatever, I was so stressed so I got in the car and drove with him and that cat, the three of us crying the entire way. Or the times when we would let him go to the end of the block on his own, then finally all the way around without us. I would race up to the back window to try to see him as he went. Then later when he would be gone for hours investigating the neighborhood in East Wenatchee with the twins--they were like 5 and 6, but we let them go. Or the time when he was too sick to trick or treat. Or the time that he became a big brother and his dad went to war.

My life is completely intertwined with that of my oldest child. Completely. I’ve spent more time with him in his 17 and almost a half years than I have with his Dad. To say that he is my person is an understatement. To say that his brothers aren’t would be a gross overgeneralization, but there is something about your first born. About our first born.

Today he is huge. Partially grown. Kind. Caring. Godly. And an absolute pain in the ass. He knows the exact right tone to use to trigger his brothers and me with just one statement. He knows how to roll his eyes before speaking that will set me off. He knows when to offer a hug and when to keep the space. He knows these things but he still doesn’t use them skillfully. But he will learn, he has a great example. I’m still learning.

So, no, I won’t say goodbye to any of the boys that he once was. And I will hold the memories close. I will continue to coach and guide and harass and set limits. I will be proud of what he has accomplished and I will worry about what he leaves undone. I know that I will miss him when he moves to Arizona in the fall, actually the summer, but until then I don’t mind that our lives are completely intertwined. I don’t care that we moved too many times for him to have actual real friends because we have accomplished what we set out to do--to make the family the core, the center point for who we all are. The five. It is always weird when one is missing but we carry on, we grow, we learn and we come back together better and stronger than we were before. I am excited for the next adventure with this kid.

And he speaks my language. He asked if I had written anything lately and when I said no, he said, oh. I think that when I’m gone you should write something each week and then I can call and we can discuss. REALLY? WHAT? OKAY? So, between you and me, Thatch, let’s get to it. 

So, Thatcher, what should we talk about . . . moving, being raised by wolves, girlfriends, politics, education, crazy stories about kids at school. Do I have a deadline? To the rest of you, join us--tell us what you think, what topics we should cover, and join us in telling your own point of view--pull up to the table, we will meet you there!

Paul (the lyft driver), a little fiction fun

 As Paul enters his apartment he is greeted by his small dog--a gift left to him by a girlfriend. He pauses--who was that? Was it Tammy? Valerie? No, must have been Angel because she was the one who always watched bachelorette and the Kardashians. She always wanted a purse dog, she said so. He had gotten this one for her and still, she left. He’d had thought she’d take the dob with her but she didn’t. He can’ remember why she left. Was there a fight? An argument? While he picks up the dog with all his matted hair, he snuggles her close and then sets her outside to take a break. Back then there were a lot of women and a lot of arguments. He always wanted to get married but he’d never gotten to ask anyone because he’d give up because there was always something wrong with them--they chewed with their mouth open, they interrupted him, they thought he needed to change or move or believe something different. Or they left--sometimes in the middle of the night or at least that’s what he thought then. 

His life is so different now. He wonders how many women he’s actually loved and how many were just because he was sad and lonely. He opens the door for the dog and she comes inside, sniffs her food and lies down on the couch. He grabs a soda and starts for the couch. He sets the soda on the counter considering if he needs the extra sugar before bed. He shifts the dog into his lap and joins her on the couch. As he looks at his hands holding her small body he suddenly feels his age. Where did these age spots come from?

Since he moved to Arizona he’s been in the sun more but he doesn’t remember his hands looking like this before. He goes through the day’s receipts on his phone and tries to see if he can picture each person that he encountered. He moved to Arizona from Birmingham two years ago and he’s been driving for ride sharing companies while also working for mechanics around town. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got to Arizona but he knew he’d figure it out. He was resourceful, bright even--that’s what the teachers always said but he didn’t apply himself. He hated the teachers--who the fuck were they--how did they know what we was thinking? They sure never asked him. They would call home and he'd get whacked. No one at home asked him either.

His mom left when he was six--he remembers her shoes and the way the laundry smells after she brought it in from outside--she’d place it on his mattress and he’d roll around in the still warm clothes and fall asleep as he heard them arguing outside. He never asked why she left or how it made his Dad feel. It wasn’t until a few years ago after his time in rehab and then the AA meetings. He then started to wonder so he’d show up early to his DAd’s place before the drink took hold and he’d ask questions. He learned that they met in elementary school and their parents had been friends. He learned that his Dad had a younger brother who was cuter and more talented and two days before he was born, his Dad’s brother, his uncle, killed himself--he was a talented kid, an artist even, but in the late 60s in Alabama the economy didn’t need an artist so he learned about cars. 

Paul found out that his grandfather worked at the local college and the boys could have gone if they had wanted, but by then his dad had already messed around with his mom and she had gotten pregnant. By then his uncle, who he never met, had started to drink with his buddies and they say his brain got stuck. Even on the days he didn’t drink--it seemed like he had--they didn’t know when he’d be home or when he’d be gone for days. When Paul would go see his Dad, he’d go early because by noon the beer and the pain had switched his brain into the same off position as he heard had happened to his uncle. It was as if all the emotions were on a dial and his dial was stuck on anger. At that point there would be no more stories or understanding. He wouldn’t learn that his mom left because he had a breakdown and her family actually took her away and put her in a home. She had always been fragile but when her husband drank and got angry she would shut down. She never really left because even now in the home that they have paid for decades all she does is draw pictures of Paul at every age. He wouldn’t learn that the way his uncle died was not suicide but a horrible accident as he entered the freeway--there was a car already going the wrong way. While he was drunk, he was not at fault. He wouldn’t learn that his uncle was an amazing artist nor that he dreamed of painting his car. No, Paul, would not learn these truths because the opportunity to move to Arizona came and he left, it would be years before he felt ready to ask any more questions.

Paul now was a reformed alcoholic. He woke up one morning and realized that he was missing his life. He wanted something more. He had started to sketch pictures each night and was capturing the faces of the people that he had met throughout the day. It was an exercise for him to try to remember each person that he saw through the mirror of his Kia xx that had 437,000 miles on it. 

Today was different, the woman in the car, she mentioned something that struck a chord. She was interested in what he was saying. As he sketched her face, he thought about his mom, his uncle, his dad, the grandparents that died of heartbreak on both sides. He had shared with this woman in the car today about his uncle, about the art, about his desires to create something beautiful and she had listened. Tomorrow, tomorrow Paul would call his dad, he’d try to picture his mom, he’d consider the women in his life, but tonight he would sleep better than he had in years.

Scone Truck

Just now, Tim, my cute husband drove into Redmond to pick up some scones from the fair scone truck while I took another Zoom meeting. I’m anxious, I keep checking the family finder app to see if he made it. I look at Facebook. I’m a wreck and I can’t figure out why. I hear from a friend that he was spotted in line, the app says he’s on the way back. I take a deep breath and focus on the Kindergartener that we are talking about and yet I’m still distracted. I see him pull in while I finish up the call. As it ends, I race out of my chair to see if he has been successful. Yes, there are scones on the counter and I take a deep breath. Really, was I that hungry for a scone. I don’t know, what is going on?

I sit back down at my desk and take a bite. It is still warm. Delicious. And then it hits me. 

Ten months ago we saw the scone truck and stopped for it. We had a great adventure which ended with a bag of scones in the car and eating them while they were still warm. And that next day everything changed. Covid had struck for real. School was shutting down. Everything has been different. I lost my job. I lost my dad. We have lost our way. Everything that we used to accept as our normal is gone. I’m so sad.

Remembering back to that day, we weren’t perfect then and everything wasn’t great. My uncle had just died and we were worried about a pandemic but our lives had gone on. We were at a baseball tournament and we were laughing with our friends while others sat in all day meetings trying to figure out the next steps. I texted with those at the meetings and dreamt up what it all meant. 

A year ago this week, I sat at this very desk as we mourned the loss of Kobe and the implications of that loss. My brother’s wife was pregnant and we talked about my parents not being able to visit if the pandemic really happened. It was a different world with different worries, but somehow the same.

As I sit here today eating a warm scone wondering if I can sneak another without anyone keeping track, I think about all that we have lost and all that we have gained. Two friends shared with me this week that they are getting divorced. I told Tim that I’m so exceptionally glad that we are going through this pandemic together and how sad I am that others don’t have someone to share it with like we do. 

As I sit at my desk trying to get our 9 month old puppy to not eat my chair, I’m reminded of what a great addition he has been to our lives and how we wouldn’t have even considered him during our old life--too busy, too much travel, gone too often for baseball, too long during the day and yet, all of us can agree, he’s been the greatest addition to our family, the very best lining of this pandemic. 

I think of all the days I spent in San Diego this spring and summer and how we share pictures and messages now more than we ever used to. I think about how Uncle Bill and my dad would have loved Finley and how frustrated they both would be at how long this has all gone on. How broken it all is. 

Nothing is the same. And yet. 

As I look out the window I notice the tree that I’ve been staring at for 10 months and realize, it is all about to loop. Snow, maybe, there is still hope, but then spring will bud on the tree and it will be pink before it is green. I wonder when this is all behind us will we notice the warmth of the scone, the process of individual leaves growing on the tree outside our window, will we remember why we do the work we do, will we even be the same? Will we want to be?