The Reasons We All Come Back

After a chaotic end to July and August, I've spent most of the last three weeks away from my desk. First to my brother's lake house in southern Michigan for Mom's 80th birthday with the entire family, then to a swim meet in Clovis, California with 31 young swimmers, then a brief escape to the Broadmoor with Rob, then Aden's quarter-century celebration with a Noah Kahan concert and birthday dinner. Tomorrow we head out to climb 14ers in central Colorado (weather and legs willing), with hot springs to follow.

But let me focus on Paw Paw Lake, where the family hilarity began before we even arrived. On the drive from Midway, Rob scorned a Justin Timberlake song on our family playlist. William, with perfect subtle vengeance, restarted the song every time a track finished. By the eighth time, our giggles had turned to hysterics while Rob maintained a long-suffering grip on the steering wheel.

We arrived to find all eleven nieces and nephews, my three brothers and their wives gathered by the lake—playing cornhole, fishing, sprawled in the docked pontoon boat, tearing around on jet skis. Our kids grabbed a frisbee and immersed themselves in the chaos while I began my three-day effort to catch up on the busy lives of my siblings.

Mom and Karen arrived that evening to a roaring welcome. Stories flew across the porch like seagulls evading capture. Family songs erupted and the little ones looked bemused as adults devolved into "remember whens." Remember when Dad fell backward in his chair at Christian's wedding? Remember when you had a cheeseburger in your pocket for six months? Remember when Nana and Papa sang "Islands in the Stream" in drag for their 45th anniversary?

That last question sent us inside to Karen's YouTube channel—family videos from past reunions. I lost composure immediately, laugh-crying through every frame. My young nieces and nephews delighted in spotting themselves as round-cheeked babies, held by various adults, participating as best they could.

The next day brought more activity. I rode a jet ski behind William, clinging to his life vest as we tore across the lake at 60 mph. My grin became so fixed my teeth dried out. Aden and I paddleboarded. Carol and I walked a beautiful trail. Mom unveiled gifts for everyone—bookmarks and cards—and we circled around reading our special quotes aloud, voices catching with tears.

On our final evening, we celebrated Rob's birthday at a local winery where a band played. We danced, retreated to shade, snacked, danced again. One brother tipped the band to play "Happy Birthday" with a raucous second verse that had Michael slapping the table and Rob threatening to abandon the dance floor. We gathered for our ritual family photo outside near the vines—all twenty-four of us beaming in bright sunlight, the youngest attempting escape as is tradition for family photos.

This is what we come back for - to remember who we are together. To hear the same stories told the same way and have them land differently each time because we're all a year older, a year changed. To dance to a song we don't know with people we've known our entire lives. John and Carol created the space for it. The rest of us showed up and filled it with laughter, tears, jet skis, and "remember whens." That's everything.

Masters Nationals Recap

 The crush of swimmers in Friday's warmup pool sent us searching all twenty lanes for an opening. Before jumping in, we ran into Rocky Mountain teammates who warned us about the slippery metal facing on the far walls—already responsible for slips on the 400 free relay. Aden and I raised our eyebrows at each other, then plunged into the waves to test the competition pool, our sleep-deprived haze broken by near-panic.

Aden's 100 breast came first. Already wedged into her new tech suit, she fired off her best time in four years. After a loop through the cool-down pool, Aden and my friend Ellen joined me in the locker room to wrestle me into my own new suit—brick red material so small it seemed impossible it would clear my knees, let alone rise over my rear and hips. Somehow, with a woman on either side hiking the fabric over the Crisco-style spray I'd lubed with, they lifted me at the hips until I hung suspended like a puppet on strings, the suit inching upward.

After adjusting the suit again in warmup, I raced my 50 fly and came close to my goal time, earning second place and posting what currently ranks second in the country for my age group. Disappointed in missing the mark, I threw everything into the 100 free, where altitude training helped me push through the back half to a time I haven't seen in seven years. A talented swimmer from Wisconsin Masters who'd been in several of my races grasped my hand at the finish. I lifted both our hands skyward—relief and joy pouring through me.

The community of swimmers and families sustained and astonished us over three days. Rob and William made the flight to Greensboro to cheer us on, their voices rising above the din each time Aden or I stepped onto the blocks—a reminder that the best support comes from those who watched us overcome every moment of doubt. I encountered a former Harvard teammate and classmate from New England who recognized me despite thirty-four intervening years and a name change. Aden and I rubbed shoulders with former Cal star Reece Whitley. Eight-time Olympic gold medalist Jenny Thompson anchored the relay next to ours in the 45+ mixed free competition.

Even more poignant than the Olympians were encounters with new friends waiting poolside between races. I met a remarkable woman from Idaho in remission from aggressive melanoma. She'd survived brutal treatment over the past few years and lost sight in one eye, but that didn't stop her from climbing the blocks, throwing herself at turns on those treacherous slippery walls, racing to strong times.

The indefatigable human spirit blazed everywhere—ninety-seven-year-olds competing and setting records to the astonishment and delight of 2,000+ athletes and spectators. My personal highlight came in the women's 55+ medley relay, swimming fly and hitting 28.3—surpassing my fourteen-year-old mark by one-tenth of a second. It's not a legal time because I jumped in after anticipating the breaststroker's touch rather than starting from the gun, but I accept the gift from my former self. Next time, I'll do it in the actual race.

What the water teaches: that community matters more than individual times, that courage looks like a woman racing half-blind on unfamiliar walls, that ninety-seven-year-olds can still set records, that two friends can literally lift you into a suit you couldn't manage alone. The relationships forged poolside—the hand grasped at the finish, the warning about slippery walls, the recognition across decades—these prove more rewarding than any clock ever could.

With inspiration drawn from the Masters swimming community and my family, what else is there but to start planning for Irvine next year? The water will be there, waiting. So will the community. And so, I hope, will I—perhaps a tenth of a second faster, certainly grateful for every moment spent in the company of people who understand why we keep diving in.

Someone Saved My Life Tonight

"And someone saved my life tonight..."

— Lyrics from "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" by Elton John

---

On the morning of my fifty-fifth birthday, I walked through the sliding glass doors of the hospital with my husband. Rob's new cardiologist—an angel in blue scrubs—had found a blockage in one of his arteries and scheduled him for a stent within two business days. The rapidity of the scheduling and the sternness of the cardiologist shook us both as his words sank in: "This should have been addressed ten years ago."

My emotions swung between fury at our previous general practitioner's ineptitude and immense gratitude that this had been caught before a cardiac event. I settled on gratitude—rage required energy that I didn't have. I focused instead on positive outcomes and counted blessings: that Rob hadn't departed for his business trip to India (where an event might have been catastrophic), that we had health insurance through his company, that Rob would soon feel like himself again.

Aden and I proceeded with our State Masters swim meet over the weekend despite our preoccupation with Rob's health. I had relays I couldn't abandon, and Rob came to watch on Saturday so I could achieve the dual objectives of competing and keeping watch over him. By Sunday, though, the stress mounted. Aden and I left the pool early to come home for family dinner, FaceTime with William, and birthday cake—the celebration we planned ahead of the big day.

Walking into the hospital Monday morning felt surreal—plunking down our co-pay, sitting in pre-op for what might prove one of the more impactful events of my life. The waiting, the IV prep, the vitals monitoring all reminded me of William's birth. My labor was induced with William, about ninety minutes of waiting before he arrived precipitously in three pushes. Rob and I had switched roles now, and I kept expecting the nurses to ask me to leave, but they never did.

The procedure lasted maybe fifty minutes. A nurse retrieved me from the waiting room, informed me that everything had gone well with no complications, then took me directly to the surgeon just outside the OR. After the doctor finished dictating his notes, he turned to me: "It was 99.9% blocked—just a thin line of an opening. Fortunately I was able to install the stent and open up the artery, so everything will be fine. But if he had even sneezed wrong..."

I didn't ask him to finish that sentence. Didn't do any research on what-ifs. I was shocked when Rob rolled out cognizant and speaking—he'd been awake for the procedure, had watched the video while the surgeon worked. His color looked good, his reflexes sharp, so different from our poor son after his two lengthy ACL surgeries.

The nurses cared for Rob with practiced efficiency. He ate a meal, dressed himself, left with his arm in a brace by 6:15 p.m. As we walked out those same sliding glass doors almost seven hours later, I couldn't fathom—still can't—the difference that had been made in Rob's life, in all of our lives. Standard operating procedure for the doctors and nurses, perhaps. Life-altering for us.

We are lucky beyond measure. And we've learned two crucial lessons: find a good doctor, and don't ignore chest pains. But there's a third lesson I'm still processing—how quickly everything can change, how thin the line between ordinary Monday and catastrophe. How someone in blue scrubs can save your husband's life on your birthday, giving you a gift no wrapped package could match. The gratitude sits in my chest like its own kind of blockage, one I don't want cleared away. Some weight is worth carrying.

Calm Rising

"Calm rising through change and through storm" — "Fair Harvard," Harvard traditional alma mater

In "Fair Harvard," which I remember only in fragments from a sleep-deprived commencement many decades ago, the university positions itself as the guiding light that inspires calm rising. In my adult life, I've discovered a different north star—my family and friends provide that steady beacon, that support when trouble arrives uninvited. My husband and my adult children, in particular, offer strong shoulders and a steady hand when I stumble into one of life's deeper potholes.

Through the skinned knees and serious illnesses, the slights from friends and bad swim meets, the difficult assignments I've navigated with Rob's help over the past twenty-four years, I never anticipated how swift the turning would be—these children we nourished and guided pivoting to become steadfast for us. When Aden, William, and Daniel were home at Thanksgiving, I found myself blindsided by the kaleidoscope of ages I could see in their faces, caught in memories of their toddler selves even as they chided me for purchasing the "spicy" version of Incohearent (an accident, I swear!).

The boys had a field day with Incohearent's not-so-appropriate cards, which they refused to let me see. William would hold one up to Daniel with mock disbelief—"can you believe this?"—and Daniel would roar with laughter even as William doubled over himself. They deemed five or six cards allowable for my delicate sensibilities and tucked the rest away, still chuckling at my maternal folly. The teasing felt tender, a sign of how the power dynamics had shifted—they were protecting me now, deciding what I could handle.

When the good-natured ribbing and laughter subsides, they remain my best friends and fiercest defenders. After I endured a terrible week—the kind where I woke each day to an elevated heart rate and sick stomach—Aden appeared on Saturday to check on me, even staying to make dinner for the four of us while I huddled on the couch in my pajamas, grateful to be relieved of duty. William called from New York amidst a crushing work schedule and holiday festivities, then called again the next day just to check in, his voice a lifeline across the miles. Daniel and a friend made sugar cookies last night, filling the kitchen with the scent of vanilla and butter, their laughter drifting through the house like music.

I don't know what I've done in this life or past lives to merit such remarkable children. When I was wrestling through tough days with three young ones under the age of seven—the endless laundry and sleepless nights, the tantrums and traumas—I never would have believed how the tables would turn, how quickly the protected would become the protectors. William returns home Sunday night for Christmas, and I find myself counting down with the anticipation of a child on Christmas Eve. Having everyone under one roof, celebrating that most sacred of family holidays together—this is the calm rising I never knew to hope for, the gift that makes every difficult year worthwhile.

When Your People are OK

My daughter flew to Montana to visit her grandmother over the weekend, and my phone filled with smiling selfies—some capturing the two of them together, mirror images of joy across generations; others featuring curious deer pausing mid-browse; many showcasing mountains ablaze with golden larches in the autumn light. Two of my favorite women and kindred spirits, they baked cookies and chocolate chip pumpkin bread, excavated the pantry's archaeological layers (unearthing pasta dated 2003), made pilgrimages to the Clavadetscher family's beloved gluten-free haunts, and caught up on everything from national headlines to personal histories. Their gathering warmed my heart with a heat that surprised me—until Aden told me about visiting Papa's grave and leaving him with a flag for Veteran's Day, when unexpected tears welled up and spilled over.

My emotions, never particularly hidden even in the best of times, currently roil just beneath a thin veneer of middle-aged composure. During Friday's therapeutic yet uncomfortable deep tissue massage, my tormentor-slash-masseuse mentioned that his daughter was expecting her third baby any day. Without warning, I launched into the story of Aden's birth—how my parents were present in the room, how the midwife struggled to stop my bleeding and called for medicine that wasn't there, how my non-medical father went sprinting down the hospital corridor to find someone, anyone, who could help "his baby." The memory cascaded forward: Aden now with my mom, the profound absence of my dad, and suddenly tears were rolling from the corners of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks in a slow, steady fountain to the pillow below. Trapped on the massage table with no arms free to wipe them away and no means of retreat to pull myself together, I felt uncomfortably exposed. Yet I remain grateful for the memories and the feelings—proof that love persists even when loved ones are gone, that the body remembers what the heart cannot forget.

Aden's home now, and William returns from New York a week from Friday—God willing and the airports cooperating. We'll gather with dear friends for Thanksgiving, and I find myself counting down the days with almost childlike anticipation. In this fractured world spinning faster than feels manageable, what ultimately matters reduces to something elegantly simple: "your people are OK," as a coaching coworker reminded me on Sunday. As of November 2026, many families and communities are not OK: are not paid, insured, or even fed. I think of how to help those without a safety net, how important it is to keep those members of our communities also in my mind.

Our relationships with friends and family and coworkers, the deliberate work we do to nurture and maintain these connections—these bonds are sacred, the only wealth that counts. I feel fortunate that my parents taught me about the strength and vital importance of family, the sustaining power of community. Even more grateful that our children understand the same truth, carrying it forward into their own lives like a torch passed from one generation to the next, its flame steady despite the wind.

Hope Blooming from the Mountains to the Prairies

I've just emerged from a whirlwind of college graduations—exhausted yet filled with hope that this fresh wave of educated, passionate young minds will help resurrect a forward-thinking, common-good mindset in our society. From the cavernous Events Center at CU Boulder to the elegant theater at University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, the commencement messages echoed with purpose: forge new paths, create meaningful change, develop ethical code, craft empathetic art. The unmistakable pride radiating from families, the unbridled joy of graduates, and yes, the stirring notes of Pomp and Circumstance all fueled our graduation weekends with a special energy.

Aden and I accompanied Nana to Chicago to see my niece (and goddaughter) Julia receive her degree from U of Illinois. We savored family celebrations at the rustic Firehouse of Chicago and at Biaggi's in Champaign (or perhaps it was Urbana—the twin cities blur together). Later, we gathered around worn wooden tables at Murphy's Pub, diving into drinking games where Nana, nursing her water with surprising competitive spirit, invented most of the rules to "Toast to the Governor." In a moment of unexpected sweetness, a young stranger passed Nana a vibrant bouquet of daisies through an open window—she attempted to gift them to Julia, but when my goddaughter graciously declined, Nana held court from her corner seat, flowers proudly displayed as we cycled through rounds of Irish poker and countless introductions to Julia's friends and their beaming families.

Brilliant sunshine blessed both graduation weekends, casting a golden glow on radiant faces and illuminating the contrasting landscapes—majestic mountains framing Boulder and gentle, tree-dotted plains stretching across Illinois. The ceremonial robes bestowed a democratic dignity on all graduates: deep navy blue with vibrant orange sashes at Illinois, while CU's black robes were adorned with distinguishing gold, purple, orange, and green sashes marking different fields of study. Across both campuses, impromptu celebrations with lemonade, water, and donuts materialized for parents and professors while recent graduates, still slightly bleary-eyed from previous celebrations, eagerly plotted their evening revelries.

Commencement speakers delicately balanced celebrating achievement with preparing these young adults for the complex, ever-shifting world awaiting them. It's no small feat to honor their accomplishments while simultaneously steeling them for inevitable setbacks and inspiring them to become architects of much-needed change. I find myself profoundly hoping these bright souls maintain their courage and determination—finding secure footholds within our society's somewhat fragile framework and propelling themselves forward and upward at every opportunity. 

Mr Moon Shines Bright in Montana

 "Oh Mr. Moon, moon, bright and shiny moon / Won't you please shine down on me?

Oh Mr. Moon, moon, bright and shiny moon / Won't you come out from behind that tree?

Oh my life's in danger and I'm scared to run / There's a man behind me with a big shotgun

"Oh Mr. Moon, moon, bright and shiny moon / Won't you please shine down on me?"

-Lyrics to Mr. Moon song and nursery rhyme, unattributed

Last night I lay in the spare room bed in my parent's house, spotlit by the full supermoon beaming through my window. Toasty under my electric blanket, I watched the illuminated clouds pass by and remembered nights in this house with our babies, catching a blessed few hours of sleep in the dark and quiet while they slept (at last). The lyrics of "Mr Moon" came to mind and I was startled to remember the man behind the tree with a shotgun -- was there ever a time when that was appropriate for grade school? My third-grade class used to belt that line, singing out of tune with gusto, but that song would never be in the curriculum now.

I dreamt of coaching swimming, urging my swimmers to kick (an activity they do with reluctance) and woke myself up by flutter-kicking my heavy covers off the bed. Though my feet were imprisoned I had apparently been carrying on with some urgency, as I woke up sweating. After a chuckle at my foolishness I went back to dreamless sleep.

My siblings and I are rotating through visits with my incredible Mom, who is here recovering from a stroke that put her in the hospital in early September. She's doing well with her recovery, walking 5000 steps a day, eating a normal diet and working on her enunciation. Yesterday she used so many elite vocabulary words I felt like I was back in my Harvard English classes! 

Our visits here are a gift of time and presence, backlit by the beautiful scenery of upstate Montana. I have two robes on now, as it's only 60 degrees in the house, and the heavily frosted grass outside unmarked by deer hooves or geese's webbed feet. Yesterday we saw a brilliant full rainbow as we drove into a storm by the Mission Mountains and took it as a lucky omen for both the time together and the future. Under the benevolent gaze of the moon and double rainbows how could the time be anything but blessed?

Looking Outward in the Same Direction

 "Life has taught us that love does not consist of gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction."  -Antoine de Saint Exupery

Rob and I watched the bride and groom from our window table in the steakhouse as we toasted our twenty-fifth anniversary. The laughing couple twirled and boogied through the meadow in front of their videographer, while tan horses frolicked and green mountains rose behind them, bathed in sunlight of the magic hour.  Two and half decades ago, we posed - similarly young and energetic - in front of Lake Tahoe during the setting of the summer sun. Different mountains looked on as we pledged our lives to each other in a haze of innocence and joy. 

What we didn't know then . . . Life and its circumstances have knocked us off our feet more than once. Even as our capacity for love has grown exponentially, our ability to serve each other and our family has flowered, shriveled, flowered again. I put our wedding photo next to a photo taken at that recent anniversary dinner and two things struck me: wrinkles, glasses, grey hairs, necklines have changed, but we are still looking outward together.

We are now (probably) farther from our wedding day than we are from future weddings of our children. What do I tell them about finding a well-matched partner, one whose loyalty and steadfastness render uncertainty / jealousy / doubt emotions of the past?  How do you pull together like a team of horses, independently but together?

An unnecessary rhetorical question;  I can't tell my children anything (yet). They don't ask for or need my advice.... perhaps once they hit 30 such a thing might be possible. But I hope they see what their father and I feel for each other, that we trust, love, respect, argue, debate, plan and aspire individually but with consideration for the other, for the family. 

Through white hairs and wrinkles, weight gain or loss, and yes, sickness and health - we clung together through it all. As our children spread their wings and leave the nest for the next, we will be home base for adventure, security, laughter, tears. Our parents provided that example and our children hopefully benefit from a legacy of silver and gold anniversaries, one that we're also grateful to follow as we add our link to the chain.

 

Bottomless Joy

We've just returned from spending four days with my family in Montana, a state where both my parents were raised, where they met, married and later retired. They built a lovely home on Flathead Lake where my siblings and I, our spouses and children, have gathered for twenty-plus years. My father was a city councilman and mayor in their small town, and when his health declined, my mother nursed him for seven years, largely in the house and town that previously knew them as a power couple.

When our group of twenty-two gathered for a singalong last Friday evening, Mom was the brightest and most festive voice, the loudest clapper. My brothers danced a jig around a red solo cup as we sang the songs we've adopted over the years as family anthems: the Proclaimers "500 Miles" with its da-da-da-da chorus that we smother with "Clav-a-det-scher"; with John Denver's "Wild Montana Skies" and with the Georgetown fight song (my father, my brother and my nephew are Hoyas).

As I looked around the circle, every face expressed emotion: those who were leaving early the next day had tears in their eyes, the youngest grandchildren were wide-eyed and perhaps a bit horrified by their fathers' boisterous vocals and crazy dance moves, and the spouses were good-natured, singing along with not an eye roll in sight.  But Mom was my favorite to watch, her smile beaming and her blue eyes bright, not a tear even threatening - only joy. It's as if the many years she spent accompanied by sorrow carved out a hollow that is now full of happiness and light. I've never seen such capacity for happiness, such joy reflected back on the people who co-created it.

My brothers, my sisters and I are so blessed in the luck of having two strong parents who made their love known to us throughout our childhood, and we are impossibly blessed now with a strong mother who put a an impossible load of caregiving on her back - only to stand without bitterness when she was relieved of it, ready to fill that space with more love, with light and with joy.

Family Swims at College Club Nationals

 Two qualifiers, a mad scramble for tickets, a bout of COVID, a senior thesis and a week to semi-recover with grandparents; it was a whirlwind of titanic proportions that lead up to a fabulous college club swimming nationals for Aden and William. The highlight for me was timing during the Sunday morning session. William was standing near me as Aden swam the 100 free and dropped an astounding 1.3 seconds off her lifetime best. As I leaned over the bulkhead to stop the watch for a swimmer in my lane, William whooped and shouted in my ear at Aden's mad dash to the wall. Aden then jumped out of the pool and came in for a hug (as my next heat's swimmer was safely cruising away) and we both cried. She finaled in that event, and later that morning she joined her brother and another guy and gal to swim a  mixed relay that will land them on CU's record board for one of the top five swims of all time (50 years of the club's existence).

The kids swam that relay in the lane where their father was timing, and after the event concluded we were able to get family photos on deck. It was a priceless moment, a fitting culmination to all the effort Aden has put into the CU club swim team over the past four years, serving as women's captain the year after the pandemic and helping to rebuild the team. William overcame a bout with COVID two weeks before the meet to swim two best times and final in his best event. Less than a year out from ACL surgery, he jumped back in the pool in December and built himself back into fighting shape. He's also on the record board at CU for his 100 fly.

Bill and Connie were amazing as they drove to and from Columbus multiple times during our stay and indulged our whim of watching the entire Saturday session online when we couldn't get tickets to that day. They bought food, loaned cars, helped draw posters, and sat in the uncomfortable bleachers with us for hours, waiting for that one minute of swimming. Our college swimmers agreed that spending time with their grandparents in Ashland was a far superior reason for the trip than a swim meet, and the hours of cards and games more essential than racing.

My heart is full to bursting after a week of family time and watching all three of my kids overcome multiple challenges to support each other. The extended family support and generational example continue to prove that family stands up has your back no matter the circumstances - in today's world there is nothing better, not even trophies or record boards.

College Drop-off, Take Six

My hands clenched in white-knuckled tension around the steering wheel of the U-haul as Daniel and I carefully cruised the Boulder streets on our way to move William into his new apartment. I exhaled gustily when I turned the corner into his street and saw my daughter standing and waving in the nearby parking spot she had reserved for us. She lives two buildings over and had volunteered to help with moving. 

We successfully unloaded with the help of multiple sets of roommates, Aden waving at friends and performing introductions as we carried in mattresses and headboards, coffee tables and kitchen appliances. I blessed the luck that put William's apartment only one flight up, and we managed to unload and return the U-Haul within a few hours. Then Daniel went to work assembling a desk and coffee table while William and I unpacked the dresser and side table in his bedroom.

The apartments are spacious and each person has their own room; a much easier setup than the dorms. William now has to feed himself, which will be interesting, but at least his sister is close by. The toaster, rice-maker, blender, microwave, kettle and coffee pots standing at attention on the kitchen counters should also help. I didn't have that many appliances (or room for them) until I had been married for five years. 

Exhausted, we fell into bed early on Saturday night, a good thing since wake-up the next morning came at 4:30am. My last tri team race of the season was an all-women race held about an hour north at a reservoir and park in Longmont. I carpooled with the other coaches and set up the group tent, counseled nervous first-timers, and cheered on our group as they successfully navigated the legs of the sprint tri. My eyes welled up at the mother-daughter duos that ran, the 80-year-old finishing on her birthday, the brothers, husbands, boyfriends and fathers of the women who ran through the transition area holding their phones high as they recorded the athlete while simultaneously screaming and cheering and exhorting them on. 

The overall impression from the busy weekend was of the importance of community, friends and family. "Many hands make light work" may be dated and trite - but it's still true. We had help moving in and we volunteered our strained backs and weary arms to move in other roommates and friends. On Saturday, as our family ate takeout on William's newly assembled kitchen table, we felt grateful for the mutual support. Rob and I high-tailed it out quickly after dinner, wanting to leave the kids to their new lives and confident that they were in (their own) good hands.

Family Laughter

 I have my family tree behind the computer monitor and can see the top portion with all my siblings, their spouses, nieces and nephews behind the Google tabs on the screen. Rob and Aden designed and ordered the tree, which has handy birthdates (with year!) in the bubbles with the names of said nieces and nephews. We have eleven on the Clavadetscher side, and when birthdays come fast and furious I need to refer to the birth years to correctly calculate the number of dollar bills that should go in each card. 

Fortunate to have many supportive branches on that tree, I reached out to siblings and spouses yesterday with an ask to please read my blog. I was trying to achieve a PR of 2,000 page views for the month of January, forgetting that my last entry leaned heavily on menopause and menarche (or lack thereof). So when my brother, Mike, responded that he had obediently checked and read the blog, he texted, "just read about my sister's cycle being way off. Winning all around." 

This made me laugh - noteworthy on a weird day when the Tri-County Board of Health voted to end mask mandates this weekend (including in schools) a mere three weeks after they benched our swimmers for ten days after a positive COVID tests because "they can't wear masks in the pool." The rapid changes in societal rules literally give me whiplash.

Another funny incident from this week: Rob kindly did the dishes for me after I cooked pasta on Sunday night. He left two pans to dry near the sink, and when I strolled by on my way to a cup of tea, I pointed out that soap still ran down the outside of the pasta pot. "It doesn't matter," said Rob, "it's on the outside. No one cares."

I dropped my mug in disbelief. "Anyone who has ever washed dishes would care! You have to get soap off both sides - that's the point of rinsing."

We exchanged dish-related barbs for a few moments and I don't know if I convinced Rob, but I'm still in a bit of soap-related shock. When sharing this anecdote with a friend, she commented that she had recently read an article on the subject, so apparently there is an open question in the kitchen world on the harms of soap suds drying on the outside of a dish. I know which side I'm on - I may not care which way the toilet paper unrolls but I care about clean dishes; it was my chore growing up and I'm fairly intense about that (and a clean sink, right Mom?).

Anyway, my friend and I got a good laugh out of the story and that makes everything worthwhile. Keep laughing, friends, we made it through January and can all hope that the situation improves from  here. 

The View from 100,000

On September 6, 2021, Wild Specific Tangent hit a milestone of 100,000 views. Perhaps 20,000 of those views can be attributed to my mother, husband and sister, but even subtracting their regular viewership, I've reached more than a few of you - and l am grateful.

Twelve years of anthologizing anecdotes of my family's life, and I've learned: the short form of blogging is my happy medium, my children like the blog posts that mention them (but don't say too much about them), a good quote encapsulates a week's worth of musing, humor is the oat milk of life, and making a reader feel something lifts my feet off the ground.

The past almost two years of the pandemic, in combination with political extremism and unholy headlines about climate change, have made me think about legacy. Even if I survive COVID, hurricanes, headlines, and misogynistic politicians, I will inevitably "shuffle off this mortal coil." My kids will be my most profound legacy, but I also have this little bit of writing to leave behind, the Clavadetscher and Dravenstott names commingling in long-winded perpetuity over the internet.

That's not enough, not yet, but it's a good start. I appreciate the good humor and merciful aspect of my readers and welcome more comments and feedback (unless it departs from their aforementioned good humor and mercy). I'm grateful that my mother could read my blog posts to my father before his death and that he got to see the printed compilation of eight years' worth of stories. This life is all about connection, and I savor the tiny threads of connection between me and my readers, all 100,000 times that writing and reading brought us together.

An Irish Wake at Flathead Lake

 "Those we love don't go away, They walk beside us every day, unseen, unheard, but always near, Still loved, still missed and very dear."  - Prayer on an Irish Headstone

Five days in Montana were not enough to celebrate my father's life, share stories in which he figured prominently, laugh over my uncle's tall tales and weep at the cemetery From joy at embracing my brothers and their families again, to awe at my grown-up nieces and nephews, to tears when an unexpected picture of Dad caught me unawares, I flew up and down the roller coaster of emotions.

Dad was a devout Catholic and we celebrated Mass for him in the shadows of the mountains, just up the road from the cherry tree orchard where we used to go and pick buckets of the ripe red fruit. I passed out cotton handkerchiefs in Dad's memory because when I was a child, he always had a clean and pressed hankie on hand. When I could barely see over the ironing board, I helped Mom spray and iron those squares and swelled with satisfaction when my stack was done. 

My brother Michael read from the Old Testament at the service, not looking up to meet the eyes of his family until after he was done, when the tears came. Crying turned to laughter when he sat in the pew and his five-year-old daughter, Mae, leaned in, asking in a stage whisper, "When's it MY turn?" 

The next generation provided wonderful comic relief but also tender support. When my youngest brother, James, stepped up to the lectern for the second reading, and broke down when trying to speak of Heaven, his three-year-old son grabbed him in two little hands and tried to kiss his tears away. Having our families around us felt true to Dad's legacy, and seeing his oldest brother, Greg, age 90, in church brought more tears and also gratitude. Greg later told me how much he had wanted to come when dad was ill, but his own infirmities kept him at home on the East Coast, "until it was too late." But he took great joy in connecting with each of us and sharing new tales of his times with dad both in childhood and in New York City, when they were young professionals together.

The next day, representatives from the VA came out to the cemetery where my father has a headstone. They set up a podium with an empty helmet suspended over empty boots, and presented my mother with an American flag in Dad's honor. Dad was a Specialist, 5th class, in the Army, and when the white-haired, bewhiskered gentlemen formed a line and did rollcall, they shouted his name and rank. "Clavadetscher, Julius!" No reply. "Clavadetscher, Julius!" Again, no reply. The silence was unexpectedly agonizing, and two of the men in our midst had to whisper "Here" in Dad's absence. Yet they called once more, "Clavadetscher, Julius!" and only then received a reply. "He's not here, he's gone to the great Commander in the sky."  An old soldier played taps while John and I each put a hand on Mom's shoulder and handkerchiefs flew up to our faces like birds startled into flight.

At our celebration of Dad's life, I tried to speak coherently of Dad's influence on our lives, his insistence on effort, on service to others, and his adventurous streak that left us children in many harrowing predicaments, halfway up mountains or horseback in a thunderstorm. He was not dull and he had such a strong moral compass that his legacy was never in doubt. William commented when we left Montana how grateful he was to have gone because now he understands more of what a life should be.

But we also laughed and sang and danced - a true Irish wake for the son of an O'Malley. Our cousins stared in amazement as the entire group belted out John Denver's "Wild Montana Skies" in chorus, and as I grabbed James for a jig, his boys' eyes grew wider than dinner plates. I hope the younger generations saw joy in a life well-lived, in the triumph of love and the strength of family bonds. As we drove off to the airport yesterday, they said "We love your family, Mom," and I reminded them it was their family, too.

A few more lasting images of the visit: Mae first standing up on a paddleboard in the lake. She got her little feet square on the rubber mat, leaned forward with two hands searching for balance, then triumphantly stood tall, lifting her fists in the air like an Olympic gymnast who had flown high and stuck the landing. Our flotilla of inner tubes, paddle boards, floaties and chairs gave her a perfect ten and a wet ovation.

Another image: Uncle Greg holding court on the back porch as a rainstorm blew in from the lake, telling us about his love of the nuns at his Catholic school, and the punishments he earned from his German father. The afternoon on the lake, cousins branding each other with water balloons in the front yard, Mom sitting with her brother and sister at church. Thank God for family, for travel, for reunions. We all pledged to do it again soon, whatever the occasion. Thank you, Dad, we love you so much.

A Half-Century

I was greeted with posters, potted plants and balloons around every bend. Beaming faces, banners and birthday music dotted the trail as friends and family members conspired to surprise me with an outdoor fiesta for my fiftieth birthday. Rob gave me a beautiful ring in a Tiffany box, following in the footsteps of my father, whose ritual present to Mom extended to me and my sister when we became adults. So Dad was there, too, in Rob's thoughtful gesture.

After more than a half-mile of gathering partygoers like pied pipers, we stopped at a colorful picnic table to toast and elbow-bump. The vaccinated among us even hugged. My family presented me with a priceless treasure, a book compiled from scores of letters, poems, and notes, embellished with photos of loved ones over the decades. A half-century of memories, backlit in bright pastels.

Fifty years may be short on the geologic time scale but it's lengthy for a human, for me. The breadth of my life now includes almost twenty-five years with my husband, almost twenty years of child-rearing, sixteen years with my friends in Colorado. I can look back over the landscape of my life and see the valleys that began with my mistakes, the torturous routes to climb back up to the heights, and the amazing individuals that stood with me along the way. 

As I attempted to tell my friends on Saturday, I have never spent so many years in one place, never been so vulnerable, so grateful for friendship that stood firm in the face of trauma, of near-tragedy. In joyful, yet heavy, gratitude for their support, I broke down in ugly tears that seemed at once out of place and yet totally fitting. 

The birthday miracles continued this week as I was able to fly to Montana to meet my mother and sister. They stood outside in the airport parking lot and I heard them shouting, saw them waiting, as soon as I burst out the doors into the wintry weather. After barely pausing to avoid a passing SUV, I threw myself into their arms and we stood blocking the path in a three-way hug where tears and joy once more danced a lopsided jig. Thank God for science, for doctors and nurses, as the vaccine made or reunion possible after fifteen months of absence.

My oldest younger brother surprised us that night, my sister mistaking him for an extremely late deliveryman and refusing to open the door. My Mom calmly walked to the door and unlocked it over Karen's protests, revealing John with a pink birthday card envelope in hand. Our collective amazement extended to the family zoom call yesterday, when John revealed himself in the background of our screen, to the shock and awe of remaining family members.

I can't help but compare this milestone birthday to others. I hope that I'm less selfish now, more loving, humble and aware of my own frailties, more forgiving of others'. I hope to regain some of the childhood confidence that I've lost over the past two decades of raising kids, to cultivate the creativity that's been subsumed by planning and list-making. Mostly, I hope to continue building friendships, spending time with loved ones, and holding gratitude for the ties the bind.

Tears at Trader Joe's

Trader Joe's employees are some of the friendliest folks you will meet in public, especially during the pandemic. The cashiers and baggers never fail to say hello, ask how my day is going, or comment on my food choices. The gluten free chicken tenders always get a comment, I think one young man has told me three times how he likes to eat them in a sandwich with the gluten free waffles.  So I was surprised yesterday when the women checking and bagging my groceries talked furiously to each other and failed to notice me for several minutes.

After filling a bag full, the blonde lady at the cashier looked me straight in the eye and said, "I'm sorry - how is your day going?"

Reassured that our regular programming was now on track, I replied that my day was fine, the weather was lovely, etc.  Then my cashier said, "My youngest son just surprised me in the checkout line."

Her friend, who was bagging the groceries, added, "She didn't know he was coming. He just surprised her with a visit from California - showed up in her line out of the blue."

Blinking back tears, the blonde said, "I haven't seen him in over ten months. He's the baby of the family, and when I first saw him, I almost didn't recognize him. I mean, I wasn't expecting to see him!"

Now all three of us were in tears. I exclaimed over her wonderful surprise and expressed my wonder that she was still at work. Her friend said, "I keep telling her to go home!"

We laughed, wiped our eyes and looked back down at the groceries or payment kiosk.  "I haven't seen my mom in over a year," I said to them. 

"Me either," said the woman putting my bananas on top. 

It's a solemn thing, to tolerate the absence of our loved ones, and a joyous one to reunite. As my family members start to get vaccinated, we all hold on to hopes of a gathering this summer. As my brother says, "I miss us. I need my mom's real hug." I hope we can all feel those arms around us soon.

Escape Plans

 "My fortune told me I'm on the wrong road

"Well life's a game, yeah I need the cheat codes

And I hate the snow

But I think I'll dye my hair and I'll move to Alaska.

Last couple of months kinda been a disaster

Tell all my friends I'm asleep if they ask ya

Sorry I had to move to Alaska."

- From lyrics to "Alaska" by Little Hurt

It's been faintly apocalyptic out here in Colorado over the past week in a state besieged by fires and the resulting smoky haze which renders sunrises and sunsets spectacular but prohibits comfortable outdoor breathing. Worries over the safety of firefighters and displaced people leads to worries about the coronavirus in crowded shelters. California has over 300 fires burning and I read their authorities have asked the entire population of the state to be ready to evacuate. The entire state? Where would they go?

Everywhere I look people are designing escape plans for themselves and their families. We made one with our college sophomore daughter, whose backup plan is our basement. She's now moved into her apartment in Boulder, meeting with friends and trying to navigate an impossible line between being social and being safe. She got her two free masks from CU and is planning a meeting with her two roommates to discuss their rules around visitors.

Can you hang out in a friend's open garage without a mask and still be allowed in your boyfriend's rental house the next day? How many unmasked friends do you allow in your own apartment? Somewhere between zero and five people, perhaps? If the answer is none, it's a lonely existence in the heat of summer or the cold of winter. But fear creeps in. CU Boulder has already had 11 positive tests for COVID-19 among the first-years moving in. Colorado College, down the road in Colorado Springs, has had to quarantine 155 young people due to the erratic actions of one individual who tested positive and exposed most of the dorm. It's been over 93 degrees here for ten days and next week holds more of the same; not a fun time to be quarantined in an apartment or dorm without air conditioning.

I heard Little Hurt's song, "Alaska," on the radio this week and grabbed on to it for a hot minute, formulating my own escape plan. "Yes," I thought, "let's move to Alaska."  Previously I had my hopes set on New Zealand, but they don't want us and are now fighting a new outbreak of the virus, so perhaps Alaska instead?  Shortly after fixing on my new and entirely unrealistic design (I have seasonal affectedness disorder and could never stand the dark of an Alaskan winter), I heard that our current administration plans to drill in the Arctic. There goes another paradise.

It didn't help my mood that William hung out with friends last Friday and found out the next day that one of his buddies had a 103-degree temperature. The friend's fever and aches lasted all weekend and while we waited for the results of his COVID test William quarantined to his room over the garage. It's a big room, so not a bad escape, except that it doesn't have its own bathroom. We got to see William only briefly as he stealth "shopped" in the kitchen with a mask on or dined with us on the porch at a healthy distance.  Thank goodness the test came back negative, and William got to go to his first day of senior year, but the worry takes a toll.

And yet, a few moments of joy highlighted the week. Daniel's first day of freshman year went smoothly, and he's already completed his algebra homework for the week. William got to swim in a small competition last night and did well - and I got called in as a volunteer so I watched him swim his 100 fly and 200 IM - a joy for me. The speeches at the Democratic Convention have been good, though sobering, and I finally have time to write some letters to get out the vote. I am grasping at one thread after another these days, feeling my way forward by the Braille of hope, moving not toward Alaska or New Zealand but to some future where we won't all need an escape plan.

Back on Campus

As August creeps along it feels more and more like living in a fan fiction rewrite of the movie Contagion. Anxiety builds and people focus on long-shot hopes of a vaccine even as children and teachers are sent back to school without one.  COVID-19 stats are positive enough in our county that my boys will go back to school two days a week starting August 17. I trust the superintendent's numbers and admire the thinking the district has done around safety measures and logistics, but I'm deeply worried. It's hard to know where to put my trust: in my children's behavior? face masks and improved air vents? God?

My youngest son is going to be a freshman. We haven't taken him to school to show him around the campus - we won't even have his schedule until August 12 so will have to wait until then to locate his classrooms. How will he meet people when everyone is wearing a mask? You can't see anyone smile under a mask, though I am all in favor of his wearing one 24/7. During his two days on campus he will have to negotiate lunch and his "off" periods (today's equivalent of study hall), and we are waiting for further instructions on how he should manage those. Choir is one of his electives, but we understand that they can't do choir this year, so what will replace it?

My senior wrestles with the idea of getting back into a schedule, managing deadlines and beginning his college applications. Hardly anything seems real; he even asked me if he should be stressed out or if he should just continue to go with the flow. Not knowing how to feel strikes me as perfectly normal, but from what I recall from my own senior year and from his older sister's, he should definitely be a little more stressed. Not that I want to add any pressure to his already strained life, but you still have to meet deadlines and apply to college on time.

In the face of the 2020 back to school quagmire, we are going camping this weekend. Higher altitude, lower temps, space and distance will all be required to calm our frayed nerves. Hopefully some campfires and toasted marshmallows will soothe our souls and put us in the adventurous mindset we'll need to get back on campus.

 

Music and Dance on Cape Cod

"Oh no, she didn't!"
"And she's up, she's down, it's the robot, it's the twist . . . score is 28.9!"

My daughter danced off the 'stage' beaming from ear to ear as if the Olympic judges had just awarded her the gold medal. My younger brothers, James and Michael, sat on the couch in our rental house watching all of the cousins dance their way through our Ipod mix, awarding ever-increasing scores and commentating on the wild and crazy variety of dance moves. James was somewhat abashed at the end of the contest when I questioned his judging capabilities; he started judging on a scale of 1 to 10 and wound up at a 29.5. "I just couldn't bear to give anyone a lower score," he said.

That was the tone of our family reunion week on Cape Cod, uncritical music and dancing and childlike exuberance. By the numbers: eighteen of us shared two rental houses, which covered seven grandchildren from the ages of 15 months to almost 10, two grandparents, five siblings and four significant others (spouses and fiancee included). We ate over 100 hamburgers, drank several hundred cans and bottles of beer (but who's counting?), swam and built sandcastles at four cool beaches, flew six kites which promptly broke, celebrated one birthday and one engagement.

Of course, numbers utterly fail to tell the story. With all of the shared memories and highlights it's hard to focus one on thread of the week, though music does it best for me. Other than the dance contests, we all had the same CD playing at various times in our rental cars - a mix made by my parents and sister which was loaded with family favorites, many played at three previous family weddings and some undoubtedly on the playlist for the fourth wedding planned for next summer. The children now know classics like "On the Road Again" (Willie Nelson) and "Wild Montana Skies" (John Denver and Emmylou Harris) by heart. We sang a raucous grace each night before dinner, holding hands in an unwieldy looping circle and raising the rafters with "The Lord is Good to Me," or "Amen." One night, someone got caught in the circle of grace and decided to dance wildly inside as accompaniment. I'm sure God appreciated our thanksgiving.

On our final night we held a third dance party, but my most touching musical memory was of my fifteen-month-old nephew singing "Happy Birthday" to his uncle, my husband. Little Mac was great at the last line "to youuuuu" and with clapping vigorously at the end of the song. His smile of joy and lit-up blue eyes were a present unto themselves. (He also sings a mean version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," cheering for the Red Sox, of course). I believe we confused Mac a bit when we switched up and sang "Happy Engagement" to the same tune, but he handled it well. If I had to judge, I would give it a 29.5.

Love to all, and God Bless. Thank you for so many amazing memories. I miss you already.

How Much Do I Love U2 . . .

. . .let me count the ways. I love the anthemic songs that rock floorboards in Invesco Field, the open spirituality, requests for prayers and volunteers sandwiched between songs, the flagrant showmanship and amazing voice of Bono, and the legendary, chiming guitar chords of the Edge. If you ascertained from these first gushing sentences that I recently attended a U2 concert you would be correct. My younger sister and husband and good friend had great seats on Saturday night and the night could have gone on forever as far as I was concerned.

Before running on with more loving anti-criticism about U2, let me say that the opening band, The Fray, was excellent. Their sound definitely held up in the stadium, and they looked good even playing in the sunlit late afternoon. We actually had a clear evening after four days or so of rain, and neither Karen nor I needed the warm coats we had brought with us - we were dancing too hard to feel cold, anyway.

The energy was terrific and most of the people around us stood for the whole two hour show. We didn't stand so much as jump, fist-pump, scream and hug . . .hopefully not obscuring the view of folks behind us. It was truly awesome to experience U2 with my sister for the first time. I have seen the band in the past with my brother John and SIL Carol at Soldier's Field and with my brother James here in Denver, but never before with Karen, who is also a die-hard fan. We're only four years apart so have memories tied to their songs going back to the 80's - a scarily long time ago now. Our favorite joint U2 memory is associated with the song, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," as we sang it to ourselves one afternoon in Ireland as I got us lost on an extremely long hike. I had taken Karen to Ireland for her graduation from college at Villanova, and we hiked almost every day (which she still holds against me.) Anyway, we did struggle on in the mud for several hours that day, but the memory of singing U2 in Ireland was well worth the price of comfort and a few hours of free time.

We texted all three of our brothers during the show and got enthusiastic and jealous responses from all. (Two of them have already been to a show on this tour). John asked, "have you found what you're looking for?" to which my husband replied, "say, he's sitting right next to you." Upon which John wittily retorted (via text): "on the street with no name?" So it was a family affair with fun had by all. I referred to this in an earlier post - how music can truly bring people together. We all resonate to different chords, songs, or performances and all have unique memories attached to the music, but the shared emotion and energy raise everyone up to a new level. Thanks to the boys from Ireland for a fabulous time!