When you realize you stopped, start again

Good morning,

It’s very early in the morning and I can’t sleep. It’s been a minute dear reader and the first question that comes to mind is, why do I write to be read instead of just writing for myself?

Truth is there are a lot of things I write just for me. You can’t read them. It’s all part of the process. So many documents in random places as I have moved about mediums and storage spaces, changed emails that link to google docs here and there. Writings were lost in the divorce forever encapsulated in her external hard drive. That has happened twice actually. I wonder if some of it has ever been read by the ones who got the devices.

I digress. I haven’t written for you, beloved, in a hot minute. It’s been on my mind to do so. If you are reading for the first time, there are troves of treasures hidden in varios blogs, ha, even vlogs from other lives. It would be a fascinating project to link them all, out there in the inter-webs.

I realize I haven’t written in some time. I realize it. I am starting again. No shame. No guilt. Just now. My present.

There are lingering thoughts that weigh on my mind. I recently had a loss. A first in recovery for me. I lost my beloved Prius. She was the nicest car I have had since the Nissan Maxima that I bought when I was 20. She died on the way home from my last trip to my parents. Some kind of belt that pushes the coolant to the engine died, murdering the Prius in total. We looked into fixing her. She needed a new engine. It was unexpected as I had been taking care of her better than I ever had.

She had three and a half newish tires on her. She had brand new brakes and was far from her next oil change. She had a new windshield that required a patch in the bitter cold of winter. Even my therapist asked why I spent $400 on a new windshield when it wasn’t blocking my view.

All that being said, she was beat to hell and back. She bore marks of a different time. With little recall, I could point out three very visible body damages from my days of drinking and driving. At one point she had been my home, housing all my worldly possessions. She was my in between when I had lost the privilege of being housed with other humans.

Responsible: party of one? AAA took her to the dealership for diagnosis.

She was taken from me suddenly. And I was faced with, talk about privilege, ha, a CHOICE. Alone, I was relatively content on my bicycle for a whole week, but I am not alone anymore. There is a child who does not reside in biking distance. There is a wife who exists in my world, in my space, in our shared experience. A wife who was experiencing stress. A wife who came to my aide.

A wife who, very calmly and diplomatically with a world of grace, helped me make the choice. A wife who did the leg work through my sadness and immobility. A wife who signed papers with me. And held my hand.

5k to fix beloved Prius with little guarantee of her life expectancy. 13k for her death. 13k for a new start. Thirteen thousand dollars! I have never taken on a debt such as this and it’s unnerving. I drive the new car in fear.

Her name is SeaGlass and she’s beautiful. We upgraded Prius by six years. We took out a loan for five. It weighs on me. I am processing the fact that I just threw away a whole car. I am processing driving ten thousand dollars around town scared to bump into something. Scared to throw a hatchback full of wood in her. Where will be stow the kayaks when we paddle ten miles on the Kansas River?

We made the transfer in the back lot of the dealership. I bought a whole car at a dealership! Walked in, talked to car guys, was offered and drank two bottles of water as I sat in the lounge waiting on them to look at the door panel. We drove SeaGlass around back and emptied the Prius into SeaGlass. No warning. No prep. Ten years in a car grabbing what I needed and just abandoning the rest. “Leave the trash,” the finance guy said.

My baby grew up in that car. We brought her home from the hospital in that car. We had our bohemian summer in that car. We camped, went to the lake, the pool, the library, uber, vomit, five years at KU. I moved to Wichita and back in that car.

In my sobriety, I have a tendency to let things sit. For a long time… like years and the Prius was no exception. There were baby toys, baby hair clips, souvenirs, paperwork, so much paperwork from repairs, blankets, clothes, tennis gear, old letters, pictures, baby sunglasses, car games, umbrellas, chairs. Life.

My understanding of the world has increased. My understanding of money has increased. It was at an all time high to begin with having one more payment on my very last undergraduate class. Having paid regular ole bills like the mortgage and house bills reverently for the last five years. Knowing how much money I make in a year versus by the hour. Rising to the occasion of caring for a whole house. Thank god for my wife. Praise the very breath of her life. I could not do any of this without her. I mean, I probably could, and I would, but my gratitude speaks that I do not have to.

I am working through this, Dear Prius. Thank you for ten amazing years. You will be missed. You were loved. You are grieved. I pray you are stripped of any part of you that might be useful to another Prius owner. I pray you save someone money with a gently used part. I hope that you went to a good home where crafty car people know what to do with you to help others.

I will cherish SeaGlass, pay her off religiously, and drive her till she dies. Thank you for teaching me the value of my very privileged resources.

First time in the Kansas River

Kayak trip.

Staring at the lights one day when I was laying in bed. Decided to clean the lights like grandma.

Taught to drive. Grandpa always said it costs money to brake a car. Thinking about grandpa when I drive.

Pen in pocket.

Grandma preparing was showing love. Also control.

Send wedding invite to Gary and Rebecca Blanton. Call and just ask for Chris address.

What do we do with the thoughts of those people that will never leave us? Kate. Chris. Erynn. Heather. Sam. How do I keep the line open without badgering them. Why are they still in my thoughts if the universe removed them AND the relationships were not mutually beneficial? Do I just need to remember the past or is there supposed to be more in the future? Tell the stories of the past.

It takes 100% of my tools and skill <50% of the time

Parenting. I am going to keep talking about it. Keep processing. Putting things on paper. When Bella was born, I knew what I was doing. Then some stuff happened, and now I don’t.

I don’t know how hard to be on her. I don’t know how far to push her. I don’t know what to let her get away with and what to call her on. I don’t know what she can handle or what might send her into real struggles.

She claims to have anxiety. She misses a lot of school because of it. So much so that it makes me nervous and I’m not sure there is anything I can do about it. She has taste and sound issues. I don’t know enough about autism to put here anywhere on the spectrum. Is she just a picky kid? Would she have been this way if I hadn’t had the time away from her?

If I switch from her to me, what I can I do? What have I already done? I have never, in my adult life, thought about what things were like for me as a kid, than I have in the past 1-2 years having her back in my life part time. And of course there is blame. Would she be this way if I had never been away from her? Who gets the blame there? Blame is defined as the discharging of pain, but if I am blaming myself, then I am discharging the pain that I already hold on to myself. That sounds dangerous. If I blame her other mother, that sounds like a great way to not take accountability for my part. Can we do no blame? It is what it is? Sure. See paragraph 2.

I want her to think for herself, but I also want her to be polite! I want her to do whatever the hell she wants to do, but I also want her to go to bed on time. I want her to eat what someone cooks or serves for dinner. I want her to learn to relax and take it easy without instantly becoming bored.

It’s shame

And forgive, and forgive again, and then live on a higher plane without their permission and without apology because your life might just depend on it.

I recently mowed part of my yard. I mean part, like just part of the front. I did what I could do and then I rolled the mower to the back. It was long before I started and unfinished when I was done for the day. I got to thinking how my father would be less than thrilled about the current state of my yard if he were to drive by. This led directly to a sincere desire that maybe a boomer would drive by and scoff, just like my father might. And by the time I was done taking pictures, I was hoping that this would cause discomfort to any drive by boomer.

Where had all that come from? Well, I am still harboring some anger about my last visit to my father’s hometown in which he asked me why I was wearing a pride shirt in Ellsworth, KS. God for fucking bid. AND, I recently came through what was the closest I have come to a drink in about three years. How do these connect? Give me an hour on the phone with my most beloved, who is away for a week, and I will verbally process the shit out of these things.

It’s shame, folks. Shame is the connector. Projected shame. Perceived shame. And best of all, shame resilience.

My beloved Angela is out of town on the second of two trips in as many months. Last Saturday, I came as close as I have come since getting sober this last and final time, to drinking. I still struggle with depression and anxiety. After a few days on the other side of this incident, I discovered that I had made a window for myself to drink. At the time, it felt like I barely made it through this incident. But, again, a few days on the other side, I see that I did, or my higher power did exactly what needed to be done to get through it.

In order to set myself up to drink, I canceled plans. I thought it was because I just wanted to be in my space and relax in a nice cool dark room. Watch my TV. Sit in my chair. When I realized I was doing this, I did not reschedule the plans I had canceled. What I did do was tell someone that I felt like drinking. When I was unsatisfied with how I felt after I did that, I told someone else. And then I told someone else. I texted several women from my support system. I kept talking. I declined several invitations that felt like too much commitment, but I kept talking. I made it home safe to a booze free home and I stayed put. At the time, I was a little down on myself for not doing more. Not going to dinner. Not letting someone come over and sit with me. But now that I look back on it, it was the perfect middle. I didn’t drink. And I didn’t make myself more uncomfortable by doing something I really didn’t want to do.

It turns out that getting just a little down on myself can be a new theme that runs through my life. There is no room for shame. Fuck shame right in it’s ear. Celebrate everything. Talk about everything. Connect the BS that happened with my father over the 4th of July to this incident and things can creep in. Once they creep in, I am susceptible to lying and hiding. Shame cannot survive in the light.

Thanksgiving Start 2024

I can’t help but think that we are just starting to fuck our kids up. If we fuck our kids up, then the next generation of adults is going to be fucked up. Did it start with us? Of course not.

Depression and anxiety and anger have a long history in as many of my family members as I know of. My beloved Della used to wring her hands back and forth, back and forth. She would usually start noon lunch at 10:30 am ensuring that most everything was overcooked. It was endearing to me as a granddaughter, especially as an adult granddaughter. It was an impossible act for my mother to follow enhancing the anxiety cycle.

Before that, what little I know not even first hand but second is that the very old man that I knew as a great-grandfather whose skin was thin, whose movements were slow and deliberate, at one time beat the hell out of my great-grandmother. He probably beat the children, My grandmother and her siblings too.

That’s just a drop in the hat of one of the 4 sides of my grandparents. That’s a tiny piece of what I know from my own experience. Fast forward to my own family. The children of the afore mentioned. Boomers. Still okay to spank your children. That’s me, the spankee. Now 4 generations of hit or miss, pass and go first and second hand knowledge. I know more. We know more. Here’s my question: are we doing better with what we have? Okay there are more questions: Are we evolving? Is that even the right question? Are we blaming evolution? If we know better, are we doing better? Are we refusing to do better even though we know better? Are we just switching tactics which are just as harming?

I just got back from Thanksgiving 2024 with 90% of my family from my father’s side. I could write for day about how much I love each one of them. I could write a blog post about each individual family member, wha they mean to me, what I love about them, individual experiences we have had, and how I pray to have many more. My gratitude abounds. That’s not what this particular writing is about.

My family is challenging to be around. This too, I could write for days on. While cooking breakfast on our last day, one of my brothers took to blaming his eight year old daughter for the reason he yells. Imagine, blaming an eight year old child as the reason you cannot control your own anger. After I raised my mouth from the floor, I took the opportunity to explain to my beloved niece and brother as well about victim blaming. I doubt I was heard. My daughter was in the room as well, though, and so was god.

What I wonder, with all our resources and knowledge though is if we aren’t propelling our children into destruction at an ultra modern rate while claiming no need for new age baloney, or that’s not how we were raised. I no doubt think this could have started as early as my parents, but who knows before that. I have friends who were not spanked, and when I say spanked, I am giving my parents the absolute most amount of grace and antiquated speech within my reason. Let me remind you that I could write a book on how much I adore my mother because, there is a huge part of me that would like her to read this. Will it draw anger from her? Will she throw up her hands and say, we did the best we could while continuing to make the same mistakes? Will she continue to turn a blind eye to the generation below her, and the one that follows that?

Upon leaving my parent’s house, my daughter went in reluctantly for her goodbye hug. She goes to all who want a hug reluctantly. How can I have a kid who’s not a hugger?! That’s a different blog. Daughter goes to Grammie for the hug. Grammie holds the hug and claims that they have a better relationship because they have now been through a conflict and have come out the other side. I was aware of the conflict. I had spoken with both after the skirmish. Cousin wanted to watch the Macy’s parade. My kid didn’t want to and she was using her influence to draw cousin from the parade. Grammie stepped in to attempt to let my kid know what she was doing. My kid spouted off that she didn’t care or something of the sort that my kid would do, and instead of slowing down… anger struck. When I looked over, my mother was in my kid’s face with a finger and I was out of my seat to stop whatever was happening. My daughter was in the process of being shamed for not thinking of others. Conflict.

There has been some kind of shift. Some kind of glitch in the Matrix. My grandmother might have beat the hell out of her children when they were young and they might have had the hardest lives know to boomers when they were babies, but by the time my grandmother got to me, I would have never experienced that kind of anger from my grandmother. This is, of course, all my own experience. I feel bad for my kiddo. I want to protect her from the anger I experienced. I also want her to know and love my family like I do! I cannot think of a single reason at this moment that I would shame my kid. But I think in that moment, she was called a name or had some kind of shame placed on her for not thinking of her cousin. She ran upstairs crying. My mother walked into the room where a family is enjoying a holiday tradition announcing that a child is somehow malicious because she is using her child influence to keep another child from a parade.

Again, I spoke with both sides. To my mother, I explained that my kiddo has a hard shell and a slow processing time. “No” first, process later. To my kid, I explained what my mother failed to when she was too pressed to take the time, add grace, maybe she didn’t know how with my daughter’s face or mouth saying “no” and “I don’t care.” I explained that my kiddo that she was using her cousin influence to keep her cousin from the parade that the cousin really wanted to see. Of course my kiddo didn’t want her cousin to miss the parade. Her cousin was having trouble expressing how strong her desire was, and that’s okay. My kiddo wasn’t taking the time there either. She recovered quickly and came down to let the cousin know she wanted her to watch the parade if she wanted to.

Now I don’t know if my mother ever spoke to my child about this conflict, but when she hugged her goodbye she said, I think we have a better relationship now that we have had conflict. And I am sorry by the way. But now that we have had a fight, we are better. Next time, fight back.

I sit here now, 24 hours later in a quiet house rubbing my face while I think of what to type next. Conflict resolution? Therapy? For me? For my kiddo? Serenity prayer anyone?

Pretty sure what happened in real life at the time was me looking at my kid with my eyebrows raised as high as I could raise them, and then looking at my wife for help, and then back to my kid with an “eh or not” kind of permission for my kid.

Send help. What are we doing to our children? How far apart will the separations be when we still have people, within the same family, participating in old disproven irresponsible behaviors that they refuse to even see?

An Open Letter to the People of Mindo, Pichincha, Ecuador

Thank you.

Thank you for hosting us. Thank you for all of your kindness and patience. Thank you for the laughs and smiles. Thank you for all the information you gave freely, especially when you had to give it twice or wait for the google translate to help us understand.

Thank you for sharing your beautiful town with us. Thank you for the work you put into your town. Thank you for the murals and statues. Thank you for the clean park and the kind workers who maintain it.

Thank you for the love you have for the world we live in. Thank you for improving your town and maintaining it’s existing beauty. Thank you for the extensions of the small town out into the cloud forest. The nature preserves and tourist attractions show how much you love the small part of the world in which you live.

Thank you to the kind pharmacy for the medications, foot powder, ibuprofen, aloe wipes, antacid, and patience as we fumbled through describing our needs.

Thank you to the street vendors for tying our bracelets, and getting down items for us to try on. Thank you for answering our questions about your crafts; stones in the jewelry, fabric in the blankets and sweaters, how you make your items. Thank you for telling us about yourselves. And thank you for asking about us. Thank you for your patience in translation.

Thank you to all the restaurants. We were always served with kindness and patience. Every question we had was answered, even when we both had our phones out to translate the back and forth. We were up for trying anything and everything, and you delivered time and again. I’m not sure I could count how many new things I tried on account of your willingness to stand by my table while I looked up words on the menus that I did not know.

And thank you for the delicious food. We ate our way through Mindo on the streets, in the cafes, in the mom and pop shops, all the way to the nicest restaurants in town. We dined in a group of two, all the way to a group of 20. We never once had a rude server.

Thank you to all the mini-markets, bakeries, and coffee shops. Every store was clean and we maintained. As we browsed about, looking a new and different things, if we saw a worker and asked a question, we were always answered with ease and kindness. We must have been to almost every mini-market they have in Mindo. Some days we were after lunch for the day. Other times we were just browsing to see how they package food, or look at different things. We dottled

“You gonna learn today.” ~Kevin Hart

It’s a giant big heavy different dumb scary frustrating awesome new healthy wonderful computer program that a bank gets. It’s the one that stores all yo money, honey. Digitally, of course.

But that’s not what we are talking about. We are talking about little ole me. I am going to say very little about the bank that I work for that is getting a new core. Sigh. It really means nothing to customers except a disturbance to their lives. TO BOOT, we are replacing our online system as well. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I am the trainer in the customer service center. Customer service be doing all the things. We work with prolly 20 systems. We do everything we possibly can over the phone or with verbal guidance online so that people don’t have to go to the bank. Hey, I get it, and I’m down.

We got this huge new system. I wonder how much they paid for it? Anywho, I have about 30-40 reps I think? I had one, yep I said one, day of training in the capitol city a couple weeks ago and now, oh yes, it is my job that I love very much, to train everyone that answers the phone.

Terror. Depression. Self-doubt. Hidy hole. And what the hell else can I do other than learn this system on my own with written instructions. Gross. That’s why I am a trainer. So my peeps don’t have to read a paper, or 20 or 50 papers and be expected to do the things.

Well, I got a start on it on my own. A start. And since it was on me to lead the charge, a start was good enough. Oof, it was going to be rocky.

I was up at 5, ready by 630 and in the parking lot at 7. I had my laptop and my extra monitor from home. I had a week’s worth of snacks and lunches. The training room only has one monitor at the work stations, so I BYOM-ed it. Buuuuuut, it turns out that I was also to attach to the big screen in the training room, so I ended up having 4 monitors. I kinda felt like a bad ass.

Now I couldn’t figure out how to work said monitors to 100% of my liking and I have a sore neck and shoulders as a result. The giant screen was right down the row from my desk, perpendicular. AAAAND I couldn’t figure out how to mirror one of my screens, so I sat, looking down the row all day manipulating this giant screen from my desktop.

I kept imagining my mouse zinging across the room when I went from the screen on my desk to the monitor at the front of the room. Zing! Zing!

Oh Oh! And half the class was in another room in another city. We were on the zoom zoom. My screen was their big screen as well. So technically I had like 5 or 6 screens. The one they had was the mirror I was looking for for mine.

The training was muddy. It was mirky. It was trudgey. Yes, I know it’s not a word. I took five reps through a 40 page study guide tour sample starter kit. I went line by line. I messed up a lot. I often couldn’t find things. I talked my way though every procedure, hoping that they were following. Checking in with them as we went. There was some awesome collaboration as we got comfortable. We were just a team learning together. If someone found the next step before I could, they shared where the hell the button was.

I followed my own advice. We trudged together. Line by line. Read a line on the workflow. Do the action. Back to the workflow. Next action. We played a little, seeing what the system would do if we pushed this button or that. We were like baby deer. We all leaned a lot of things. I got some reference material started.

Since I started my Quality Analyst/Trainer/Mini-Sup position, I have never been in a position where I was learning the system with the people I was teaching. Normally I come prepared with an outline, workflows, pictures with red arrows and step by step instructions.

We got through it. I know with 100% certainty that my first five folks walked out of there knowing something they didn’t before. These are my people. I want to take care of them. I also know that I am not special in any way and if I am nervous about the change, they are, too. And unlike the training I got, I can do better. I can take care of them. I can get them the tools. It’s what I do!

It was okay. I just did what I always tell people to do. I learned how I train them to learn. The sky didn’t fall. I will be better tomorrow. I won’t be much better tomorrow. But I will be a little better. I think, once everyone has the intro course, I will have gone through the system 4-6 times. Then I have to get them to do the same. It’s fine. It’s gonna be fine.

Suit up and show up. And Breathe.

Ellsworth without Grandma

The headstone has been up for at least 5 years. The new addition, death date, was dark after having just been added.

I was pretty nervous about my first trip to Ellsworth after my Grandma died. I found some pretty unexpected results. First and foremost, I was able to take care of myself amidst all things Ranker. Secondly, my memories tended to focus on times when I was a kid.

Surprisingly still to myself, I was able to take care of me. My family is loud, argumentative, and often unkind to each other, especially on the male side. There are often arguments, unkind words, impatience, and we all have control issues. Sometimes this hits me upside the head because my brain helps me forget, every time I go there. Thanks, brain, but sheesh, it can be jarring.

I focused on myself, had the privilege of focusing on my child, and choosing how I speak to her and the rest of the family. My Belly and I just had a good time and did what we needed to do. First stop: Grandma Della’s grave. Throughout the years, I have almost exclusively stopped by Grandma’s first, so I thought it fitting to visit her grave first. Seeing the fresh dirt was gross at best. Someone had put peonies on her grave. One of if, not her very favorite flower. I added my 3 year coin.

I only saw my Grandma cry twice in my life, and both were alcohol related. One was exclusively my doing, staying out all night and cheating on my first wife. That’s all I have to say about that. And the second I will not speak on.

Bella was by my side and we inspected the grave, the new carving, and the amazing sculpture that had been added to my Grandfather’s side. This was made by my Uncle Duke and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen him make.

The blue N is for Northern Natural, my Grandpa’s company that he retired from before I was born. And I guess piston parts, and a circular crank from the plant as well. Other additions that were from my lifetime: the gearshift from my Grandpa’s truck, and his hammer. The back, a handmade hand-welded cross, all made by my Uncle Dwayne, who we also call Uncle Duke, who is a welder. Behind is a separate yard art sign that reads:

On Angel’s wings you were taken away, but in our hearts you will always stay. Your loving children. Dorsey Ranker. November 11th, 1924-September 23rd, 2017. Grandpa’s side is also decorated with the American flag and the Navy Flag.

They done already mowed over Grandma! Lol. And Grandpa’s grass isn’t looking too hot either.

Belly and I went, we saw, and then we headed for mom and dad’s. The weekend went off without a hitch. I was able to nap one day and sleep in the next. I was able to hold my tongue mostly most of the time in a very conservative place. I was able to be myself without shame or fear. I was able to take care of myself and my daughter.

I tricked her into this picture when she wouldn’t look up by yelling, “What was that?”

The most surprising thing was how easy it was to take care of myself and Belly. I had to laugh at myself upon reflection because the surprise was on account of me forgetting how much work I have done to be okay. 3 years of sobriety has never been achieved in all my attempts starting in 2009. I have done the work. I have taken the steps. I have failed forward hundreds of times with the only thing going for me is that I never died. I lived to tell, and try again. This time I am succeeding, thriving, really truly living. I am the only one to whom I answer, to whom I am accountable. That used to scared the shit out of me and I didn’t love me enough to show up. Today, that is so far from the truth that I still get to delight in it.

I get to grieve. I get to mess up. I get to show up. I get to “embarrass” my kid. I get to be bored as shit at horse shows. I get to swim with my belly hanging out because a sports bra is the only thing I can wear with the neuralgia. I get to love myself in my obese skin. I get to stay calm and speak kindly to EVERYONE. I get to travel with my kiddo and not worry my wife. I have a wife!

Back to Grandma: I may have put some of this on my family, but I think the result was healing for all. I started talking about homemade ice cream weeks before our visit. Now consider that Grandpa died 5 years ago and Grandma lived with my folks after he died and then the nursing home. So we haven’t made homemade ice cream for years, even before their deaths. But that was something that we used to do on big family weekends, so I had my heart set on it.

My folks have their own hand-crank ice cream freezer. It needs to be soaked in water before we make ice cream to seal up the cracks so the salt water doesn’t leak out. Bags of ice and rock salt must be acquired as well. And I needed them to find Grandma’s recipe, which I had taken for granted that someone had saved. I urged my folks to prepare all the things and I would bring my cranking arm. They delivered and we had a really nice time making 2 freezers, each a gallon, of homemade ice cream.

I’ll tell you right now that it was not as good as grandma’s and I had not one, but two alcoholic scares in making the damn shit. Grandma always mixed up the batch. Always. I often watched, but even when I “helped,” I probably just pored the sugar that she had measured out, whipped eggs that she had already cracked, or did two teaspoons of vanilla. Once everything was set, she would always add a little bit more sugar, and, I think, vanilla. To taste. Her taste. She had it perfected.

My mom delivered with the recipe. I found out that my folks’ freezer was smaller that Grandma and Grandpa’s, so she had a smaller recipe that was proportionately cut down. She also had Grandma’s hand written original recipe. I have no idea where she got it. Mom and I mixed up the first batch and off we went. Kids gathered around the freezer and asked questions about the process. Why the salt? Why the ice? Why are we making this when we can go to the store and buy it?

Mavrik, Wyatt, Isabella, Arabella, Me, and Papa.

The first freezer of ice cream is harder as the ice melts and molds around the freezer inside, but the second batch goes pretty smoothly as the salt water is already melting and super cold. I went into the house to make the second batch. Without thinking at all, I licked the side of the lemon extract bottle after measuring it out. It’s a bad habit that is also strangely a family thing. My mother does it as well. Anywho, lemon extract is 87% alcohol. I was instantly nauseated and full of fear since I take a breathalyzer every night that I have Belly at 8pm. It was about 7:20. I freaked out and put my mouth under the sink and starting rinsing my mouth out and drinking a ton of water.

I grabbed my phone and texted the Calvary, who very quickly let me know that it would not show up on the breathalyzer. My heart was racing. My body temperature was high. I dropped the ice cream mix off into the freezer so the kids could crank and I headed out to my car to grab my BACtrack. I tested the BAC, and the Calvary was right, 0.00. Phew!

The next day, we were sitting around eating the ice cream with Uncle Eugene and Auntie Louise. I mentioned how the ice cream was subpar. My mom says to Louise, that we wouldn’t want to add too much extra vanilla on account me. I was like, why-not-oh-my-god-it’s-raw-and-doesn’t-cook-out, so there is an alcohol content. SECOND FREAKOUT! It never occurred to me. Vanilla is like 17% alcohol. The recipe is two teaspoons in a gallon, so I am good, but again worried about the 8pm breathalyzer. Oof.

In the end, all was well, but it was a great reminder to stay vigilant. I was thrilled to make homemade ice cream in order to honor Grandma Della and Grandpa Duke. We crushed it. We added plenty of new tradition as well. Mom and Dad have been in Ellsworth for like 3 or 4 years and I pray they are there for many more. I will bring my happy little ass without apology as often as I can. Living amends. May we never outlive them.

Me and Mommie: She is the new Matriarch and I absolutely adore her.

I successfully navigated the first weekend in Ellsworth without my all time most favorite person. I achieved self care and brought the kid back alive. We had a really wonderful time. I continue my grief process by walking right into each situation. The definition of courage is taking that action in the face of fear. Today I am safe, sane, sober, and strong. Caterpillar to butterfly. #loveholly

Get this kid a cape, she saved the day.

It feels super dramatic to say that the kid saved my life, but really there is no way to tell. Maybe she did.

All I know is that I did not get off the couch last weekend. I went to work this past week, but I went to work from home on that same couch spot. Everything has been hitting and sitting since we got back from Arkansas.

Hitting me like a two by four. Hitting me like grief. Sitting on my chest and staying there. The house was a mess. I mean the house was a mess like we threw our own wedding and then left for a week on a camping and kayaking trip. Wedding prep, after wedding mess. Gifts, decorations, wrapping paper, cardboard, life, mess, mail, leftover food, things stored or set, all over the goddamn place.

And then we gathered anything and everything camping, which did not coincide with throwing a wedding. And left for a blissful week full of supplies and resources, tent, coolers, camping totes, food, kayaks, safety gear, lanterns, bug spray, campfire supplies, saws, axes, life jackets, bedding, clothes, shoes, bought more stuff there, and then came home and I personally just crashed. I barely had the energy to empty my own car yet alone hers.

What made it out of the cars after the wedding and the mini-moon found a new temporary home in the front room. And so started the making myself feel bad for feeling bad. This is rookie mental health stuff, but I think that even the pros could succumb to this on occasion. Stuff like, I am so blessed that I have two living rooms and one is just storing shit right now. Two couches but you can’t even see one. Laundry to do but nope, not getting off the couch. Oh, and by the way, why is it so painful to sit on the goddamn couch? If this nerve pain were a greater issue for a greater number of people, then the pharmacy companies could make money off of it and someone would have found a better cure by now, better pain killer, hint of boomer, where is the goddamn pill I can take instead of doing something about my condition. It hurts to sit. It hurts to move. It hurts to think about where to even start organizing this life in this spot.

Enter the life saving thought. I knew this kid would save my weekend. I knew she was coming and I knew, at absolute bare minimum that she would say, I’m hungry. And while I could have said, great, there is food in the kitchen, thanks only to my wife, I knew that I would not do that. I knew I would get up and assist her in getting food. I wonder if she brought a cape. I wonder if I could find my KU cape to loan her.

I didn’t tell her all of this. I told her some. I told her I had been struggling to find motivation and that it had been hard for me to be happy this week. I wanted to share as much of me as I could, at an age appropriate level. I did not want her to know that I was relying on her to pull my ass out of the ditch. That’s not her responsibility but I gladly used her as a tool.

She came through with flying colors. We had food adventures, again, assisted by my lovely wife. We mowed. Then we played soccer. She encouraged me so well. I want to play soccer so your effort in mowing the lawn isn’t wasted, she said. Who’s playing who? Who cares?! We edged the garden beds. We weeded gardens. We played with the dog. We biked. She explored the limits she’s learning with how far geographically she can go and how often she needs to check in. She explored her emotional limits by stating she didn’t want to go to church. Small fits were thrown. Boundaries were tested. I took care of myself. Angela did her own thing including but not limited to being by my or Bella’s side all weekend long.

I was so happy smack dab in the middle of a heavy deep depression. I sat on the front porch waiting for bella to get back from a lap on the bike, and cried, thanking Angela for her help and expressing my feelings. I’m so happy, I said, tears streaming. This is so nice. This is exactly what I needed and I knew that my little family would just be themselves and deliver.

My current mental health meds have been the same prescription since January 2020 and I have no desire to change them. That being said, I do not cry very much, or as often as I used to, by far, by very very far. This grief and downswing after the wedding and mini-moon has brought me to tears repeatedly. Being able to cry happy tears in the midst of all of this was an incredible emotional release. I was so grateful to be sitting sadly on the front porch crying happy tears with my new wife waiting for my superhero to round the corner on her bike.

One week anniversary of being Mrs Brownrabbit

First question, did we legally change our names to Brownrabbit? You’re damn right we did. I was Brown and she was Babbit, so we meshed the two and came up with Brownrabbit. Simple. Fun. Iconic. Different. New.

These last two weeks have been such a journey. I laid in bed last night thinking of all the things I wanted to write about. Instead of prewriting this post in me head, I just starting thanking god for all the things that were popping into my head. I can write a gratitude list, let me tell you. One thing leads to another and it turns into a meditation that eases my mind and puts right to sleep.

Speaking of sleep, “it’s a great day to wake up instead of coming to.” This was a quote said at the beginning or end of a share by my dear friend, Gloria, who passed away I guess a couple years ago at this point. Two days ago was her wife’s birthday. Her wife, Belinda, a very dear friend of mine since my first days in recovery, about 2009, passed away this year as well. I happened to still have a rose from her funeral hanging on my dashboard while we were on our minimoon. I released her into the fire. Her death comes in waves when I wish to reach out to her, or, more often these days, think about her kids. Belinda and I had a short talk and I assured her that I and her children were fine. We would be okay and she should just enjoy being a free soul.

Back to my gratitude meditation, let’s start with the fact that I am grateful that I have the right to marry my love. Only since June 26th, 2015, has same sex been federally recognized in the United States. Thanks, Obama. Since I was a baby gay, coming out at 15 or 16 years old, I had been told that gay marriage would not be legalized in my lifetime. Now look at your full grown gay, divorced and remarried! I imagine explaining this to my kiddo when she’s older, telling her that when she was born on March 13, 2015, it was not legal for her mother and I to marry. Since 2 moms is all she has ever known but will be inundated with a heteronormative world, I can just imagine her simply stating how stupid it would have been if her moms weren’t allowed to marry like everyone else on the planet, or something of the like.

I digress because we divorced like so many couples; grateful for that opportunity as well. I would have died in that marriage. And now, 5 years later, give or take, I am one week Mrs Brownrabbit.

But wait, let’s go back one more week. Two weeks ago today on April 16th at 12:25 pm, Della Fern Wachs Ranker passed away at 93 1/2 years. Born November 29th, 1929, this woman saw some things. Before she was 10 years old, the Dust Bowl struck Kansas and then WWII broke out. She would have gone through the Great Depression as well. She grew up on a farm outside of Ellsworth, KS. I wish I knew more about her childhood, but she never complained about it. Hard work. Well into retirement, coffee break was at 10, dinner at noon, coffee break at 3, and supper at 530. Farm time. My dad was born in 1948 as the eldest of 3 boys and he graduated KU in 1970. That puts my grandma at 19 when he was born, in her 20’s in the 50’s, 30’s in the 60’s, and 40’s in the 70’s. By the time I was born in 1979, she and my grandfather were retired, folks. Boom. Done working. At 50ish.

Della Fern Wachs: Confirmation 8th grade

Grandma was second of 5 kids. She still has 3 living siblings! I wonder if she was ever that ornery second born kid. I was also second of 5. I don’t think she ever graduated from high school. Her obituary says different so I could be wrong. I think she started working at the grocery store to help out the family as early as like 13 years old. I think her family had moved into town at that point because she told me that she was scared to walk home from the grocery store at night. I don’t know what her mother or father did after the farm or if they just moved into town but kept the farm. Not sure. I should reach out to my Aunt Nancy and Alice, grandma’s sisters, to get some stories.

Her obit says she kept the books for several different organizations. She was an excellent record keeper in so many ways. She was highly organized from scrap books, to checkbooks, to holidays, letter writing, etc. As I was writing this, another wave of my losses in addiction hit me because I am certain that I lost many of her letters. Grandma and I wrote avidly to each other and I found out later that she did the same with her siblings and who knows who else? I was one of few who could read her handwriting with ease. She was well spoken and wrote well.

I’m sure I knew at some point where her and my grandpa met, maybe a town dance? I think it was after WWII. My grandpa’s mom signed a release for him when he was 16 or 17, to join the navy so he could go into the branch he wanted to go into before getting drafted. So I think he went at 17 and was back at 21. He was born in 1924. It is my understanding that my grandfather worked 3 jobs and my grandmother was a battle axe stay at home mom. I think she ran a pretty tight ship.

She wasn’t my mom though, she was my grandma. She is the one who gave me my first nickname, Holly Dolly. I don’t remember much about my early childhood. We went to Ellsworth for holidays or they would come to Manhattan. They were often at grandparent’s day at school and around for plenty of soccer and tee ball games. They were at First communion, confirmation, and graduation.

First Communion with Grandma Della, Grandpa Duke and Grandma Terry.

Grandma, Grandpa, Erynn, Holly, Paul, Nick. Possibly Easter egg hunting at 701 Elling St in Manhattan, KS. Notice Paul’s Bert and Ernie shirt. That old yeller passed down through all of us.

Grandma’s house was spotless but there was no running in the house because you would “stir up the dirt.” There was significant dirt outside though. My cousin, Sommer, is my age and we grew up when I was in Ellsworth, together. We played in very small warm puddles on the patio that was laid by my grandpa. We made mud pies in the back shed. We made homemade ice cream that was hand cranked and would not freeze, hand to heart, unless one of us sat on it to hold it down for the cranker. Coffee break was at 10 and 3, cookies and milk for the kids. Dinner was at noon. My aunts and uncles would come by for dinner or supper when I was in town.

During the summers I would get to spend a week alone at grandma’s. It was a welcome vacation with cable TV and my choice of dinners. I first fell in love with shells and cheese at grandma’s because we had the Mac and Cheese with the powder at home and she bought the good stuff with the cheese that you squeezed from the package. We played a ton of games, many of which no longer exist like Cooties and Snoopy. There was a significant amount of Play-Doe. Grandma had a “playroom” in the basement. Imagine! A whole room just for play!

That smile though. She loved giving. We prolly each had like 5 presents from grandma and grandpa every Christmas. And that little feller is my cousin, Luke. Hims full grown with a Masters degree in City Planning these days.

Grandma taught me how to play rummy. My family has a strange version that I have never seen elsewhere. It consists of 7 hands, each a different requirement. I learned how to play sitting on my grandma’s lap. Dominoes was another family game. I remember playing cards and opening Christmas presents with my great-grandpa, grandma’s dad. He was very quiet. He lived across the alley from grandma and grandpa and did his own thing well into his 90’s. He had a wood shop in his garage and I still have several pieces he made. They are mostly hideous but grandma displayed them about her house with pride.

Marble game made by great grandpa. One of the few good pieces. What a racket!

They had a massive garden in great grandpa’s yard for a long time and we ate fresh cucumbers in vinegar or half and half, fresh tomatoes with sugar, watermelon, cantaloupe, carrots etc. I wish I had spent more time out there with grandpa, but I was either with Sommer or grandma, always. As they got older, the garden became too much to take care of, great grandpa died, and they sold the house. Great grandpa’s wood shop caved in on itself and sits there to this day. The back shed, where mud pies were made, was rebuilt and we grew up. The raceway for tricycles was replaced with individual stones, but the lawn remained spotless. My grandpa’s signature canas were no longer able to be cared for and were replaced with grandma’s peonies for a time, but then those were too much as well.

Family reunion in 2017, me grandma and her sister, my Aunt Alice.

Grandpa developed Alzheimer’s and once grandma couldn’t care for him, he went to the retirement home in Lyons. He died about 5 years ago in 2017. Grandma stayed in the house till my folks retired to Ellsworth about 3 years ago. She went to live with them until they were unable to care for her. She spent her last couple years in the retirement home that she took us to to visit her mother as kids. She was still quite vibrant until her death. We played cards every time we would go see her. She wasn’t much for conversation. She “didn’t know anything.” So we would tell her what we had been up to lately and then settle in for a game of cards. I would have sat there in silence doing nothing though. Oh how I adored that woman.

Grandma trying to use a smart phone. She never owned a cell phone or a computer.

Covid Thanksgiving. Matriarch. Mom and Dad on the left and my dad’s middle brother Uncle Dwayne and Aunt Geri.

Last trip to Lawrence. She got to see our home and spend the night with my mom.

Her last Christmas (I think). I gave her a giant board of photos for her room at the retirement home. She sat and looked over every photo.

Her second to last day on this earth was incredibly moving. I will write about it another time. And more as it comes up. I love you forever with my whole heart, Della Fern. Ang and I named our kayaks Fern and Irma after a different old lady couple in her family, but mine doubles as a guide of the greatest love I have ever known, you, grandma.

Until next time, Holly Dolly.