Heroism, Romance and ... Jason?

This is a story from July, which I hesitated to tell at the time for reasons that will soon be apparent—but thinking about it now, I know it needs recording.

We'd had a stretch of sweltering summer weather, and Sunday, July 26, was supposed to be the hottest day yet. 

Since our house doesn't have air conditioning--or much insulation--and gets hotter than any other building I know, we are always looking for ways to cool off on these types of days. One of my favorite places to go is White Rock beach, which happens to be just down the cliff from the house where I grew up. It's always several degrees cooler there, and I love the smell of the sea and the beautiful scenery.

I had the idea that we could go down the Thousand Steps trail, located close to my childhood home. Since it was Sunday, we wanted to avoid the commercial strip, and we also wanted to stay away from crowds because of the pandemic. So, this small section of beach seemed the perfect option. Plus, Jason had never been on the steps before, and I was excited to show him the trail (I'd been back with my sisters when our kids were little).

                                       

I wasn't 100 percent sure I could find the entrance, but Google Maps led us straight to the Thousand Steps without any problem. Everyone was anticipating a fun climb down the stairs and a nice, cool swim at the bottom. Then we saw the sign saying CLOSED DUE TO COVID-19.

I suggested we climb down to the beach from the United Church camp where my parents used to be caretakers. This hike is a little risky and involves climbing over a fence (where people have been known to rip their pants), but I'd been over the fence a few times and thought it would be okay. Nobody else wanted to go this route, though.

Not to be diverted from our goal, I had another idea. Just down the road from the camp, there was another fence where we could simply walk through the large hole someone else had cut. My kids protested and Jason had doubts, but as a child I had been down this route many times--I knew the fence was unnecessary and that the trail led to the water.

Jason mentioned afterwards that if it had been any other situation, I would have been the one to say, "no way, we're not doing this." But since it was where I'd grown up, I boldly defied law and logic, assuring everyone that everything would be fine.

To strengthen my case, a pair of hikers showed up, taking the same route down. We asked them if they thought our kids could make it, and they hesitated only a moment before saying, "For sure!"

You can just see the back of Jason's blue shirt. Remember that....

Partway down the cliff--which was becoming rather steep--we found some well-worn ropes tied to trees that we could use for balance as we edged our way down. At first I was hesitant, because at that point I was still scared of catching Covid-19. But after a few slides down the smooth dirt hill, I realized the ropes were going to be our only hope.

The cliff got steeper, and smoother, as we climbed down, until the ropes were the only thing keeping us from a 40-foot slide. At the bottom, Jason had slid, Janae had slid, and then I slid at least 20 feet, my hands still clutching the rope. This little stunt burned my hands raw, not to mention what it did to my backside. Somehow I had failed to notice that 1. This cliff was too steep for anyone but experienced hikers to scale down, 2. I am not 12 anymore, and 3. We were going to have to climb back up, with no footholds, handholds or steps. 

I started to wonder what I had been thinking. What if one of the kids had fallen and been badly hurt? What if Jason had broken an ankle or been knocked unconscious by his fall? How could we get anyone out of there quickly, or at all? We were at the bottom of a cliff--in an area where people were not even supposed to be. 

To make things worse, once we'd all slid down the hill, we realized we had to climb up another ropes course to get to the ocean. My hands were so badly damaged that I could not even hold a rope. 

Somehow, we got up, then decided to send Janae and Alaina to scout ahead and see how much farther we had to go. We could hear people splashing and laughing in the water, so we believed it was close. My daughters' report: there was still an electric fence between us and the ocean.

I am not one to give up easily, but I finally told everyone this wasn't going to work. Our only option would be to climb back up the cliff, get in the car, and drive to the actual beach. The problem was, I didn't know how I could get up the cliff. Everyone else was bruised, scraped up and discouraged, but I was physically unable to hold a rope. My hands were blistered and burning, and I was stuck at the bottom of a cliff … a cliff that I had talked my entire family into climbing down.

Then, Jason did something I never could have anticipated. He ripped off his T-shirt, tore it up, and started wrapping it around my hands. With this cloth covering, I was able to hold onto the ropes--not without intense pain, but my raw hands were protected enough that I could pull myself up the cliff. 

There were times when Ben was holding the rope with his hands and Eric with his legs, times when people took their shoes off so they could clutch the dirt with their toes, and times when I thought I would fall to my death, but we all made it back to the car.

We didn't stop at the beach but drove straight home, dirty, sweaty, rope burned and defeated.

Everyone was disappointed, but I was just thinking, "We need to get some aloe for our car's first aid kit."

Actually, I did have one other thought. As I looked at Jason, driving without a shirt, I realized he really must love me.

Later, when I sheepishly told my parents about this adventure, including Jason's spontaneous decision to rip off his shirt and tear it into strips to cover my hands, my dad exclaimed, "Don't you think that was romantic?" 

Jason and I have been married almost 18 years, and by now I'm not really looking for any grand romantic gestures--I'm just happy to have him take out the compost or fold a bit of laundry. 

But, I had to admit, my rescue from the bottom of the cliff could have been a scene from a romance novel … or at least from a romantic comedy :)

Absence, Presence, Apples and Abundance

A week or so ago, we went to my parents' house to pick apples. 

My mom and dad have a LOT of fruit in their yard: apples, pears, applepears, kiwi, figs, raspberries, tomatoes, grapes, plums, and of course, blueberries.

Every fall, my dad has picked the apples and given many of them to me in boxes and bags to make into applesauce, apple crisp, apple muffins, and--when I'm feeling really brave--apple pies. My parents have also made apple leather, pies, pie filler and dehydrated apples, with jars and freezer bags full of fruit dating back several years.

The evening after I picked apples with my kids, I was inexplicably sad--although I probably should have been able to guess what was wrong. Finally, I went to bed and cried my heart out thinking of my dad picking apples from those same trees. He wasn't where he usually was, doing what he usually did, which somehow I found unbearable.

A few days later, I wrote this in my journal: 

I've been thinking of my dad a lot, and we've looked at so many pictures of him lately that I feel like I can always see his face. In some ways, I feel like he's with us more now than ever before.... I guess he's with us in a different way. He's with us in our memories, but we can't see him, hear his voice, spend time with him, etc.--we only have experiences from the past.

When I was at university—two decades ago now—I studied the literary theory popular at the time, which included the idea of an “absent presence” within a text. This implied that something could be more there because it wasn’t there. Confusing as it might sound, this phrase has stuck with me, and I often think it applies to situations in life.

Now "absent presence" is how I think of my dad, and it is especially fitting because of his personality.

As I mentioned in a previous post, it has been hard to accept that my dad is gone because of how full of life he was. In my sister’s eulogy at our graveside service, she also described him as full of laughter and full of love.

He was a collector, too, his house full to overflowing with everything he loved: tools and gadgets, books and movies, paintings and art supplies, nuts and dried fruit, and even chess sets, games and toys for the kids. My mom, of course, has her own collections, as well :)

If we ever needed a blender or picture frame, a piece of wood or pair of boots, my dad almost certainly had it. Going through his knife collection, my sisters have found dozens of pocket knives, several fish-filleting knives, and a growing number of electric carving knives (16 at last count!). And you don't want to know how many fishing rods he had. It's a little overwhelming, but that was my dad. Whenever we were looking for Christmas or birthday gifts for him, we used to joke, "What do you get for the person who has a hundred of everything?" 

My dad was also full of ideas, and we see evidence of his creativity all around his backyard in the form of plant experiments and restoration projects (a car, a boat, a ride-on mower). Some of my last conversations with Dad were about a motor he had taken apart to fix and put back together, and he was excited about his next challenge with another vehicle. He wrote pages and pages of his thoughts and was always looking for his next subject to paint--Eric being one of his favorites.

Yes, my dad really did paint this.

This afternoon as I drove to pick up my kids from school, our van was full of the sweet cinnamon and apple scent of muffins I'd baked to bring along for their snack--once again evoking that absent presence I was talking about. Clearly, my dad is still here in abundance--and we're grateful for that.

 

Celebrating September 6

Even though it seems not long ago that our sweet little Alaina looked like this,

she actually turned 11 yesterday!

We are so thankful she is part of our family and love to hear all of her thoughts and ideas, her book reviews and cello practicing (even when it's a little squeaky!), and also her laugh. She adores hamsters and got a new hamster with a much larger cage a week early for her birthday this year. 

She also loves to be cozy in her blankets, is always willing to give a hug, and is a good friend to all three of her siblings. She will be starting middle school in just a few days, and already survived the orientation, complete with mask.

Times being what they are, the Primary from our church organized a "drive-by" celebration, where people decorated their cars and formed a parade that went by our house. 

People honked and threw cards and gifts to Alaina. We'd been to a couple of these events for other kids, and Alaina wasn't sure how she would feel about having one of her own ... but she actually loved it!

She felt very loved and had fun reading the cards and going through all the gifts.

(These flowers were dropped off a day early so they wouldn't have to be thrown out of a car 

window!)  

Afterwards, we went to pick up Grandma to come over for barbecued burgers. (We really missed Grandpa, who normally would have come, too.)

Alaina has been reading The Hunger Games this summer and just finished the third book yesterday. She'd seen a cake on the internet that captured a scene where Peeta is hiding in a pit, camouflaged with mud, sticks and leaves, with only his eyes visible.

She'd asked me to make something like it, but with everything going on, I didn't think I'd have it in me. I suggested a couple of times that she could pick out a bakery cake, but she really wanted me to make one. Finally, she agreed to my plan, but then on Saturday morning the weather was cool enough and I was up early enough to bake her favorite fudgy chocolate cake before we started our day.

Alaina and I went and picked out all the candy, then Sunday morning I put it all together. 

It was different from the Pinterest picture, but we liked it even better :)

We weren't sure what to do about the candles, since blowing on a cake has kind of fallen out of fashion, but in the end we decided to cut the cake and put all 11 candles on Alaina's piece.

Somehow when she tried to blow them out, they all stayed lit--even one that had flickered! It took two more blows to get them all out ... so, we probably made the right call in putting all the candles on her own piece of cake :)

It was a different birthday this year, but Alaina had a happy day and felt lots of extra love from people who reached out with their cards, gifts, and honks. And now she's really 11!

Miss Me, But Let Me Go

I remember when I had been away at college my first semester, and my family came to pick me up from the bus I had ridden through snow and ice all the way up from Rexburg, Idaho--we stopped at a shopping mall my sisters wanted to visit, and everyone started to go their separate ways to look in various stores. 

As this happened, I felt intense panic--I wanted everyone to stay together. I knew it was irrational, that we were all just a few steps away from each other, but I just wanted to be able to see everyone. Even though it had been my choice to go far away to college, I had missed my parents and sisters too much, and now that we were back together, I didn't want them out of my sight.

I know that this type of separation anxiety runs in my family. Whenever we've visited my parents, my dad has never wanted us to leave--he would want to show us just one more thing, feed us one more thing, or give us one more thing to take home. 

When my mom and I drove away from the hospital on August 22, I felt this way, too. It felt wrong to drive away, knowing that we would never come back to pick up my dad. I hadn't seen him since the previous weekend, and I already missed him too much. How could I let him go?

On Tuesday at our graveside service for my dad, my brother-in-law read this poem by Christina Rossetti:

When I come to the end of the road,

And the sun has set for me,

I want no rites in a gloom-filled room

Why cry for a soul set free?

Miss me a little--but not long.

And not with your head bowed low.

Remember the love that once we shared.

Miss me, but let me go.

Like my dad, I'm not good at letting go--but also like him, I know that sometimes I just have to leave. 

I hope that in time we will be able to remember him but let him go, even while we miss being able to see him and have him with us here.