Strange Pulse

I obsess over this song. Listen to it over and over again.

Anyone care to speculate?

Listen to it in the radio.blog, top right.

I took this photo last year on the Huntington Beach Pier. It’s one of my favorites I’ve ever taken. I think I’m gonna try to post a Christmas-themed photo every week this month–hopefully I have enough good ones. (Of course I start off with my best.)

(Someone asked me for a larger version to use as a desktop image, in case anyone else wants it too, here it is.)

Also, I’m gonna post some of my favorite Christmas songs. My brother just emailed me this one: “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” by Andy Williams. Growing up, we had an Andy Williams Christmas record we used to play every year. You can listen to it on the radio.blog, top right.

We went to a park yesterday to try to take some family portraits. But it’s really hard to get a shot of everyone looking decent. We’re all scowling at the sun but Catherine. But this was the best of the bunch. (I set up the shot, my Dad snapped it, I recropped the photo.)

All the other pics either had our hair blowing weird, someone’s eyes were closed, or someone was blocked by something–it’s nearly impossible to take a picture and be in it at the same time. I wanted them framed a certain way but it was hard for my dad to do it. Hard to even see what’s in the frame with the sun glaring (I’m used to it). I need a tripod to do it right, but my tripod got broken/parts were lost/something like that.

I actually hate doing posed shots, it’s not what I enjoy at all, and my kids aren’t used to it. They’re used to actually doing something and having me snapping away around them.

OK, we didn’t make it to San Clemente, or even Newport Beach–but we might today.

Yesterday we went to our local beach and Daniel surfed.

Mullet Man!

Elijah, cutie pie.

Catherine, sweetheart.

Nathaniel, paddle ball master.

The stick of magical powers.

Working on art.

“Get away from him!”

Me, Mom, Dad, Cat

Daniel, Elijah, Cat, Dad, Mom, Me - photo by Nathaniel.

Almost 16, can you believe it?

My parents are here, they came down from Seattle, since we won’t be going home for Christmas this year. Which sucks, because both my brothers will be home for Christmas–one lives in Philly and the other in Taiwan, so they don’t get back to Seattle all that often. But we can’t afford to go and Daniel can’t get the time off.

So my parents came down here. And believe it or not, Daniel’s actually taking the whole 4 day weekend off. Unheard of for him at his current job to be able to take that much time off. He just wants to sit and do nothing all weekend–he usually works 6 days a week, so it’s a big deal for him to have so much time off. Problem is, he’s speaking at church on Sunday, and that’s got him a bit stressed. I couldn’t believe he got asked to talk again so soon–he just gave a talk a couple months ago. He’ll do fine–he really does well speaking in public–but he was just hoping he could have nothing on his plate at all for the whole weekend.

My mom helped me cook dinner, which is good because I hate to cook. And it didn’t turn out all that great but no one cared. Elijah was happy to have pie. Catherine told us about the church youth activity she did the previous night–serving dinner at a homeless shelter. It’s a tradition for the youth at church down here to do that the night before Thanksgiving, helps them realize everything they have to be grateful for. Nathaniel twisted his ankle in gym and didn’t go (but he went last year). We all shared things we’re thankful for, and we all laughed when Nathaniel said technology. (I can’t believe now that no one started singing Kip’s wedding song, but no one did. “I love technology, but not as much as you, you see. But I still love technology, always and forever…”)

Then we played some games with my parents–Hoopla, which is really fun, and Scattergories. Then we collapsed in front of the tv for the rest of the evening watching a boxing special on ESPN Classic.

My mom was hoping we’d go shopping today, but I reminded her this is Southern California. You can’t go to Walmart on a Saturday, it’s so packed. Going anywhere on the biggest shopping day of the year? Nightmare.

Maybe we’ll go to the beach. Or down to Balboa. San Clemente?

I’ve always wanted to adopt some kids. Ever since I was little, I liked the idea. When I was a teenager, I read a newspaper article about a man who adopted 19 kids, all older kids that normally have trouble being placed in families. I cut it out and saved it.

When we got married, we decided we wanted to have two kids, and adopt two kids. Not babies, but slightly older kids. We ended up having three kids–Elijah was a surprise, and a really great one. But we’ve never been at a place where adoption is possible, and it’s looking like we’ll never get there.

I was thinking about it this morning. Why would I be born with this desire for something that will probably never be possible? (I haven’t given up on it completely, but it does seem like a long shot. I’m not even sure if I’m capable of being the mom that a special needs child would require. I don’t think I’ve done all that great of a job with the kids we already have, and they’re such easy, good kids.)

I started praying about it silently in my head as I was getting ready for work. I asked if there was a scripture I could read that would give me an answer. And I thought, Job 3.

Does a Job 3 even exist?

Job 3.

I thought, OK, I’ll look it up later, I’ve got to get to work. (Very typical of me.) But then I realized I hadn’t eaten yet, so I grabbed a bowl of cereal. As I sat down to eat it I thought, Read Job 3. So I looked it up and read while I ate.

Job 3 is several poetic verses, all cursing the day he was born. Good stuff. On and on, wishing he’d never been born. But then I got to this verse:

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?

And that’s what I’d been thinking about for days. Let’s say we never are able to adopt any kids. Then why have I had this strong desire to do so my whole life? I guess I’ll have to read the rest of Job, maybe there’s an answer in there.

I also loved the last verse of the chapter:

I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet;
yet trouble came.

Yet trouble came. Boy do I know that feeling!

I mean, two of my sisters-in-law. Not my actual sisters. But they’re like actual sisters.

Audra and Amber are both my husband’s sisters, and they’re two of my best friends. I was lucky to marry into such a great family. They’re both published writers. Really interesting people, way more intelligent than me. Check out their blogs:

Peninsula Wave

Serenity Now!

I’ve also added links to them in my sidebar.

I’m skipping Part II for now because I don’t feel like covering my teen years. Some other time.

I got married at age 18, which was pretty old for the women in my family! But we were clueless, we didn’t know anything about living on our own, managing money, what it took to live. We spent 6 months in Hawaii, which I’m going to skip as well–I guess that would make this Part IV, but oh well. Hawaii is a weird and glorious place. But I got pregnant and didn’t want to be on an island thousands of miles away from my family when I had a baby, so we came home.

We stayed with my parents when Nathaniel was born, then moved out into a small house in downtown Tacoma in an area known as Hilltop. We moved there for a bunch of reasons–but mainly because you could rent houses *really* cheap, and the idea of a house being cheaper than an apartment somewhere else was appealing. It was a slum, and the houses were rented as “fixers,” which means you had to clean them up yourself. When we moved in, the carpet looked like–well, I don’t even know how to describe what it looked like. But there was a spoon and a syringe on it. We ripped it out and laid down some old carpeting my parents had just replaced in their house.

I worked about 45 minutes away as a bank teller in a suburb called Des Moines. It was a retirement area right on the Sound, a nice area. I was only involved in one bank robbery, which I won’t detail now. I also would fill in at the nearby Sea Tac branch, once the day after they’d had a bomb threat, because none of their regular employees wanted to work.

I’ve already talked about how my husband became completely messed up on medication for ADHD. He’d have violently angry spells followed by suicidal depression. That was stressful.

Being poor was stressful. If I told you how much we lived on for those years, you wouldn’t believe me. Once the Relief Society president came over to fill out a food order for us from the Bishop’s Storehouse (LDS food bank), and I marked down only a few items. She told me I didn’t need to skimp and started marking down all kinds of stuff. I’d never imagined being able to have so much food. I was so used to living on rice, macoroni and cheese, and top ramen, having anything more than that was completely foreign to me. Of course, I also didn’t know how to cook.

My 15 year old niece came to stay with us, because my sister wasn’t able to provide a place for her to live. She was a big help to me, did a lot of cleaning, which I’ve never been good at, and would occasionally babysit Nathaniel. I taught her how to drive. (I don’t really remember that, but I assume I must have.) She was only 5 years younger than me. I wasn’t much of a guidance to her, I figured I wasn’t her mom, and had never really even felt like an aunt–we’ve always been more like cousins. She ended up getting pregnant while living with us, you can read that story here.

She’s also the niece I mention here, in item number 7.

When we moved there, Nathaniel wasn’t even a year old. While we lived there, Catherine was born.

Other highlights from the Hilltop years:

• Hilltop in the early 90’s was considered the worst gang neighborhood in the state. We thought when we moved there we were moving to the nicer end of it, because on the other side of it a lot of houses were boarded up and had bullet holes in them. Turns out, we were right in the thick of it–on a corner my niece called Smokeville, because it’s where the crack addicts would hang out, and the drug dealers would drive up in their cars to sell drugs. Curbside service.
• My brother, sister, and grandfather all died when we were living there. My brother died of cancer at age 34, my sister about 7 months later of unknown but natural causes–I think she was 32. She “woke up dead.” They found her in the morning face down on the floor in her room in a halfway house. Had to do an autopsy to rule out suicide. They determined her death was by natural causes, but didn’t figure out what they were.
• Once I locked my one year old daughter in my car with my keys, and I was locked out of the house. Alone, at midnight. It’s a pretty funny story I like to tell, maybe I’ll go into more details some other time–suffice it to say, I had two gang members breaking into my car, and ended up giving one a ride to south Tacoma.
• My niece attended a nearby high school called Stadium High. You might remember it from the movie, 10 Things I Hate About You. Amazing building in an amazing location. Horrible school. The kids all called it “Stay Dumb and High.”
• The ghetto’s an interesting place. On the streets, on the sidewalks, are all the sketchy people–clucks (drug addicts who look like they’re dying of AIDS–and probably are), strawberries (whores who sell themselves for drugs), gang members, drug dealers. But in the houses you have normal, good, and amazing people. Our next door neighbors on one side mowed our lawn for us once after they found out our lawn mower had been stolen off our back porch. The funny thing there–it was so messed up, to turn it off you had to ground out a certain wire by touching it to something. I liked to imagine whoever took it starting it up and not being able to turn it off. But I’m sure they just hawked it somewhere.
• We also had our battery stolen out of our car. Yes, right out from under the hood. Anything that was left in the yard or in our garage would get ripped off. They also stole the tabs off our license plate. I didn’t discover this until I was pulled over and ticketed by a cop. I guess he didn’t believe me when I told him they were stolen. I don’t know why he didn’t–the most recent tab showing on the plate was from 1986. It was 1991. Like I’d been driving the car around with no tabs for years?
• Our garage was detached, in an alley, and had no doors on it. It wasn’t unusual to look out our window and see gang members hanging out, shooting craps, in our garage. Or, occasionally, hiding from the cops driving down our alley. Once, my niece’s boyfriend found some rock cocaine hidden in our garage. I just told him to get rid of it. I think he sold it.
• Oh, and the alley rats. Wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d stayed in the alley. But they started coming into the house. I put poison out and that got rid of them. But one crawled up inside our couch before dying. Took us forever to figure out where that horrible smell was coming from.
• There was a 7-11 store on the corner a couple blocks down the street. We used to walk down there for snacks and junk food a lot. It was sold eventually and became a kind of mom-and-pop convenience store. When it changed, they took out the cash machine. I walked down there one night with no cash, forgetting the cash machine was gone. So I had to walk a couple more blocks over to the hospital, where there was an ATM. While I was waiting at the crosswalk, a man drove up with his top down on his convertible. He called, “Wanna date! Wanna date!” It took me a few seconds to realize he was talking to me. He thought I was a prostitute. He must have been wasted, because when I was walking back to the store after getting some money, he drove by and asked me the same thing again.
• There was an old man who’d drive around the neighborhood slowly in what I like to call a kidnapper van. No windows on it. He followed my niece and her friend around one day and freaked them out. Then he did it to me. I was walking on the sidewalk, and he was totally trailing me in his van. I got to a corner and he pulled over and started to roll down his window. Never before was I so happy with the amount of crazy people who stood out on the street in Hilltop. I just kept on walking as fast as I could and he drove off.
• I think that was the same day I’d gotten locked out of the house. I’d gone down to a payphone on the corner to call my niece at her friend’s house so she could come home and let me in. I don’t remember if I reached her, but I remember crawling up on the roof over the back porch in a skirt and letting myself in through an upstairs window.
• After a little while living there, a single mom with three teenagers moved in to the vacant house next door. The oldest son was a gang member, and there was no fence dividing our backyard from theirs. Suddenly we had a bunch of gang members parking their cars in the backyard next to ours, sitting on their trunks getting drunk, and waving big guns around. My niece once saw the cops do a car search in their backyard and they were pulling machine guns out of their trunk.
• The youngest kid next door was 12. My niece spent the afternoon of his 13th birthday hanging out with him, because his mother was spending it at a bar getting drunk.
• It wasn’t unusual to be woken up in the middle of the night by drunk people out on the street. One night it was someone shooting at street lamps. Another night, it was people drinking. ON OUR FRONT PORCH.
• There was one week that cops pulled over someone directly in front of our house. We assumed it was a stolen car, but we didn’t really know what was going on. Except that the cops had the car surrounded, shielding themselves behind their cars, guns aimed at the people in the car, just like in a movie. We stood on our front porch and watched. (So did all the other neighbors.) Which isn’t what happens in a movie, is it? A woman cop shouted directions at the driver of the car–first she told him to roll down his window and put his hands outside the car. Then she had him open the door and place his feet outside, then stand up with his hands up high. They arrested him and that’s all that I remember.

  Except that it happened again a few days later, only it was a few houses down the street the next time.

• Oh, and the helicopters. Every weekend night, police helicopters flying over our house, shining a spot light down into our yard.
• Once our neighbor’s boyfriend knocked on our door. Daniel answered it. We’d never met this guy before. He asked if he could borrow five bucks. Daniel burst out laughing and said, “NO. Nice try, though,” and shut the door.
• There was a church on that corner that would have some type of revival meetings in the summer. They built a rickety stage on the church property, with these huge speakers and sound system–and they’d be out there every night singing gospel songs and trying to convince the drug addicts to give up cocaine. It was really cool. Except they’d often go on and on past ten o’clock at night.
• The building our ward met in needed some rennovations, so our ward rented a nearby empty chapel from another church. It was an ancient building, like something out of Little House on the Prairie–steps leading up to double doors, which opened directly into the chapel. The place had no heat. And of course, it was winter. We’d bring blankets and coats to Sacrament Meeting. You could see your breath fogging the air. One Sunday the bishop sent us all home early because it was starting to snow. I say “we” and “us,” but Daniel had gone inactive by then. It was me and the kids.
• The scariest person I saw while living there was a fellow who was behind me in line at McDonald’s one day. He had tears tattooed on his face. And the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen. It took a lot to freak me out. He freaked me out. A little.
• The saddest thing I saw while living there was two 12 year old boys who walked by, reeking of crack. (Not that I know what crack smells like, but it had to have been. It was a sickly sweet horrible smell.) They looked at me like I was insane when I smiled at them and said hi. Crazy white lady. The saddest thing I heard about was something my niece saw–a two year old, who when older kids would point their hands in a gun shape at him and say, “you’re under arrest!” would lay down face down on the ground with his hands behind his back like they were handcuffed.
• Actually, that’s not true. Dwayne had some sadder stories. He was a friend of my niece’s. He deserves his own post though, maybe some other time.

Obviously, I could go on forever with Hilltop stories. These are just off the top of my head–there’s lots more. It was interesting, living that close to the bone. And I didn’t realize how stressful until moving away from it.

Someone seems to get a kick out of my self-disclosing tendencies. Well, brace yourself.

I’ve already shared some stuff about how crazy my family is, and some other misc stressful stuff I’ve dealt with. But that’s not even close to everything. This won’t be either, unfortunately. But here we go.

I was born a poor black child. OK, not really.

When I was born, my oldest brother was put in a foster home. He was 13, and deemed what was considered back then incorrigible. My older siblings were all really wild and there was a lot of turmoil going on back then. And all throughout my childhood.

My mom had to stay in the hospital after having me to have surgery on her thyroid. That left my dad at home to deal with one wild teenage girl (my oldest sister, who he caught sneaking a boy into her room), an “incorrigible” 13 year old, an 11 year old (my other sister), a 2 year old, and a new born. My dad had only been married to my mom for three years–the three oldest kids were his step-kids. Must’ve been really hard, at age 31, for my dad to take on such a wild bunch. (I always kinda related to the Brady Bunch as a kid.)

So it was a stressful time, the first two weeks of my life.

My earliest memory is of my oldest sister being pregnant the same time my mother was. I would’ve been about 3 years old. My younger brother has a niece that is a few months older than he is.

When I was about 5, I would mope around on the swing set in the backyard (I liked being melodramatic and feeling sad as a kid), making up songs about my oldest sister, who is 15 years older than me, and her husband, who was 16 or 17 years older than her. (And one year younger than our mom.) The songs were sad because they had to be separated. Separated, because he had to go to jail.

When I was a little bit older, my oldest brother and his pregnant wife were in a car accident. Me and my brothers were sent across the street to a neighbor’s house while my parents rushed to the hospital. No one would tell us anything that was going on. We just knew it looked bad. I can remember waiting and waiting to hear what was going on. They had sent us out into their backyard to play. I stood by the sliding glass door, next to the flowerbeds, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally, my parents came home and told us the brakes had gone out on my brother’s car, while they were driving down an extremely steep and curving hill, and they’d crashed into some trees. My brother’s wife had been thrown from the car. But she and the baby were ok.

My other sister would babysit us often. I only remember when she lived with us–I don’t remember when my other oldest two siblings lived with us. Well, like I said, my oldest brother moved out when I was born. And my oldest sister got married when she was 17 (I would’ve been 2). When Jenny lived with us, she was an older teenager, and I used to watch her put makeup on. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to shave my eyebrows and paint them back on, too. I would sneak into her room when she was gone and try on her platform shoes. We would sit at her vanity and she would paint my nails. Then I’d go out into the yard and spin around with my arms out wide to dry the nail polish.

But Jenny would babysit us, and I think most of my memories of that was when she was an adult and married with her own baby (probably around 18 - 20 years old). What I know for sure was, she was on drugs. And she was crazy.

She became mentally ill. I think maybe I sensed it before anyone knew what was going on, I don’t know–but I can remember her being crazy. It’s hard to describe, if you’ve never dealt with anyone who is mentally ill–I’m talking paranoid schizophrenia, here. Full on hallucinations. Accusations of people plotting to kill her. That’s one of my biggest childhood memories–my sister being paranoid, crazy, and on drugs. While babysitting us.

I didn’t know at the time she was on drugs. I just knew her behavior was irratic, weird, and occasionally completely insane.

There’s not a lot you can do to force someone who’s having mental problems get treatment. It doesn’t matter if they’re out of touch with reality, as long as they’re not a threat to themselves or anyone else. But the first time she said something about wishing she was dead, my mom took her to the hospital and told them she was threatening to kill herself, and she finally started getting some help.

She was mentally ill for the rest of her life, though. Not able to live on her own, in and out of halfway houses, attempting suicide, etc. Her kids were raised by her in-laws, because she was crazy, and her husband was in prison.

Different brother-in-law than the one I mentioned earlier, when I was moping on the swings. Both my sisters had husbands that went to prison.

What else from my childhood…My grandpa died when I was 8 of lung cancer. One big reason I’ve never picked up smoking. I’d only met him once or twice in my entire life, so it was kinda weird when my mom told me he’d died. I thought I should feel sad, but I’d never really known him, so I didn’t really feel anything, except guilty that I didn’t feel very sad.

There was a lot of other drama and trauma going on when I was a kid, but it’s all kind of a blur. I remember a lot of yelling and chasing and craziness, between my dad and my older siblings. I remember once my sister showing up at our house with a fat lip, and maybe a black eye, and a big scene, but I don’t remember who was there or who gave her the fat lip.

Oh yeah–when I was about 6, my oldest brother came over with his girlfriend and a baby. I can distinctly remember watching from behind a dining room chair as they talked to my mom on the other side of the table. I don’t remember anything that was being said, but I somehow knew that the baby was my brother’s baby. (This wasn’t the woman he later married, but it may have been the woman my oldest sister’s husband ran off with when my sister was pregnant with their third child–I’m not sure.) After my brother died (when he was 32), my mom and I were talking about how many kids he had–I guess he fathered a couple as a teenager before he got married–I don’t know how many. I asked her about that memory I had, and she told me his girlfriend had been calling her Grandma, and that upset my mom and I think they had a fight or something. Which is probably why I remember it. My brother later claimed he didn’t think the baby was his. I’m not sure if that was the 14 year old who called my mom just before he died of cancer, trying to find her real dad. He was too ill to speak to her, so she didn’t get to meet him, but she came to his funeral.

Well this post has gone into a bunch of stuff I wasn’t really expecting to, and I’ve got stuff to get done, so I’ll continue it later. Next up: my young married years in the ghetto. Good stuff, don’t miss it.

Get that Chicago song out of your head. Listen to these instead.

There’s something about using the word “sorry” in songs that just kills me. Maybe it’s just the way these songs have used it, I don’t know. But let me tell you about them.

Sorry song #1: “The Woman in You” by Ben Harper
This song has a moment I live for. It’s when he sings the line,

Love carved ’sorry’ in his face

What’s it mean, exactly? I have no idea. But it’s a great image.

The other moment I live for in the song is when Ben starts wailing, “Woman!” over and over.

Sorry song #2: “Various Stages” by the Great Lake Swimmers
This is an alt country band that I think is starting to get some attention. They deserve it. The line:

I am sorry I had nothing left for you

Sorry song #3: “Carry Me Ohio” by Sun Kil Moon
The “sorry” line in this song can make me nearly cry, even after listening to it on repeat for an hour. (And I’ve done that a lot.)

Sorry for
Never going by your door
Never feeling love like that
Anymore