it's not good-bye...

Mark and Jenny.

Our friends Jenny and Mark and their daughter Nikelle left Saturday for their new home in Phoenix. Terrible time of the year to move to Arizona, right? It’s gotta be a bazillion degrees there. But for most of us, any time of the year would be a bad time for them to move. Jenny has always been kind of the ringleader of our little crew. Of all our group of friends, she’s the one who knits everyone together. I met Jenny about 15 years ago when she and Mark were working at a print company and I was a client. She invited me to a last-minute houseboat trip to Lake Powell.

Nikelle and Jenny at Brooke's birthday party, snuggling
Tagg when he was just 1 week old.

My sister Tiffany and I went not knowing a soul – we barely knew Jenny! – and had a ball. The houseboat was called the Diane. It was a teeny older houseboat with hideous wood paneling, no AC, and a big box in the back that was supposed to serve as some kind of ice chest. At the time, it seemed like the Ritz to us. Our first trip to Lake Powell became the infamous “blah-blah-blah” trip, named for the closing line of an epic whiskey-fueled fight between two big guys we barely knew - and Jenny was right in the middle of it all trying to referee. She thought we’d never come back again but lo and behold, we did. About 50 more times!

Nikelle has always loved Tagg and Sloane. Good "big sister!"

One of the first times I met Scott was at Jenny’s house and I swear I should pay her for the counseling she’s given me over the course of our relationship. If it weren’t for her, I’m not sure we’d be together today. But not only did she help get us through some rough spots, she and my sister were at the altar with us at our wedding. In typical Jenny fashion, she made sure that they had matching black dresses (I was fine with anything as long as it was black) and fresh flowers in their hair.

Girls trip to Catalina for my birthday,
age shall not be named.

For years, before we had our own big boat, we used to tag along on Mark and Jen’s boat, Body Shots, for weekend camping trips at Lake Powell. All four of us tucked into what we know now is a pretty small space and yet somehow it was always awesome. We’d make bloody marys in the morning and Jenny and I would cook up an elaborate breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and potatoes while Mark grumbled that cereal would be just fine and so much faster. Those trips are some of my favorites – ghost stories around the campfire (Blair Witch, anyone?), gas-bomb campfires, some crazy couple fights….aaaah, good times.

The first and only half-marathon we've talked
Jenny into. There's only so much she'll do for the girls
even if there is free wine at the end of the 13.1 miles!

It feels like this is kind of a memorial, right? It’s not meant to be. But as I was watching them get in their black SUV, packed to the roof with stuff, I wanted it to be all of us heading down to the lake for a weekend not them moving 11 hours away. I already miss knowing she’s “right there.” If Jenny is gone, will we all stay friends? It’s already been tough the last few years keeping the crew together. We used to be inseparable but now we all seem to be at different life stages – some people have new kids, old kids, school kids, some people are having grandkids while some are just getting married and having first babies, and some are totally single and living footloose and fancy free. Everyone’s work schedules are crazy and oddly enough we don’t have those couple of long weekends a year at Lake Powell on the Diane to keep us all together. A few times a year, we manage to all get together at a Christmas party or a barbecue but it’s rare and it always seems like someone is missing.

Mark, Sean and Scott at one of the infamous Halloween parties.

So what happens now? Do we become those friends who swear to keep in touch and visit and actually do, or do we drift even further apart? Or are we those friends who only talk a couple of times a year but when you do, it’s just like yesterday? No matter what happens, I know in my heart that Jenny will always be one of my best friends. What that looks like, I’m not sure. But for now, to use her words, it’s not good-bye…it’s we’ll see you soon.

Self portrait: Me and Jenny, New Years Eve 2011.
(My fake teeth look fabulous, but Jenny always
loves me no matter what!)

three

A little blow-up water slide action. This is the only photo
where he's wearing a swim suit, not his birthday suit.
What can we say? The kid likes to be naked!

Tagg turned 3 years old on July 26th. I can't believe it. It seems like just yesterday that an angel placed him in my arms and gave us the greatest, most unbelievable gift you could ever imagine. And now that little bundled-up bald burrito-baby walks, talks, counts, spells, orders us around, goes potty by himself, reads books, has a fake laugh, an occasional mohawk, and knows that little tiny cars and balls are choking hazards for his baby sister.

In short, three years after that amazing day when we welcomed this perfect baby into our family, he's impossibly even more perfect. The dimple in his cheek, those killer slate blue multi-faceted jewel-like eyes, his blond hair with all of its cowlicks, his sweet loving nature, and his fascinating interesting entertaining self. Perfectly perfect.

With a couple of exceptions, the ONLY non-Cars related gift he got.
Apparently, I need to buy stock in Disney Pixar while he's under 10.

Tagg is definitely three...he's a pretty good negotiator. Me: let's read a book before bed. Him: how about three books? He's getting picky about food. PB and J, waffles, french fries, orange juice, and any candy or chocolate are high on the hit list. Whatever happened to the watermelon craze?!

Cars = Catatonic.

Tagg is fascinated with iPhones and the games he plays on them, especially Angry Birds (finally learned how to shoot the birds the right direction...he used to just aim them at the ground to hear them squawk), Balloonimals, and the spelling and matching games.

Tagg likes to repeat back our parenting techniques. Him: Daddy. You stop mowing the lawn. Put away the lawn mower. Right now. One...Two... Really. Or my other favorite...Daddy, I need to wipe your bum. Oh dear.

The new bike was not nearly as cool as the new Cars scooter that Grama and
Bompa gave him. I think he'll dig it around Christmas.
You know, when it's all snowy and stuff. Should be perfect.

One of his other favorite gifts was a recordable Good Night Moon book from Nana and Papa. I don't know why but that one brought tears to my eyes the first time I heard it played and every time since. He reads/listens to that and I Love You All the Time which is the book that Juno recorded for him a couple of years ago. I wish I had my grandparents voices reading me my favorite books, somewhere other than in my head. And I can't imagine how Tagg will feel when he's older and he can hear Juno, with her soft Southern accent, read a book to him about how much she loves him.

Getting ready for cake with muscle arms. Bear in mind, the cake already
hit the floor a couple of hours before party time when he saw it
and pulled it off the counter for a "snack" and then he
grabbed a good handful of frosting before the actual singing.
It really is all about the cake. 

HAPPY 3RD BIRTHDAY, WONDERFUL BOY! WE LOVE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING!

Tagg insisted that we have daddy's fireworks after the party at about 11.
Ouch. So we sat in the back of the truck and watched the show. Thank goodness
our neighbors spent about a ga-jillion dollars on fireworks. But Daddy's were still the favorite!

* You will note that I mentioned very little about his fascination with Cars. You should get that from the birthday photos. Is there ANYTHING that Disney Pixar doesn't make with a Cars theme?

arachnophobia

I am not a fan of spiders. I may even have a bit of a phobia. It's not a good affliction to have when you're at Lake Powell. Especially when your boat sits vacant for any period of time. Those 8-legged fuckers just take over. Which is exactly what happened on our trip. There were spiders EVERYWHERE! Big ones, little ones, hairy ones, deadly-looking ones. All creepy ones. No matter how many you smash or brush away from the rafters, rails and walls, inevitably when you wake up in the morning, there they are lurking in their freshly made webs, sipping some of your Starbucks coffee and snacking on gnat guts.

I try to remember Charlotte's Web. Not matter how icky they look, these spiders are not evil killers after my blood or bodily host for their swarms of next generation creepies. They are just trying to get a decent meal. The webs are artistic, architectural masterpieces that look lovely in the sun. IF you can get over the nasty-ass spider loitering in the center.

After a few sleepless nights where every random hair tickle on your face jolts you out of bed clawing frantically to swipe away what you hope are imaginary spiders, and dreams filled with creepy crawly 8-legged night stalkers over-running the bed, and a baby (luckily not ours) with a tell-tale spider bite on her neck, I would smash the shit out of Charlotte. I don't care what she's writing in that web.

Okay. That's a lie. I would make Scott do it.

flashback: tagg's birthday

First birthday photo...July 26, 2008. Such a love.

I think about Tagg's birth parents a lot. Some people think more than I should, but on his birthday I can't help but think back to the day he was born. I was exchanging some Facebook messages with Paulie, Tagg's baby-daddy (cuz, you know, that's how you communicate these days) and we were reminiscing about the first time we met, the 24th of July - a local Utah holiday celebrating the day Joseph Smith decided that Utah was "the place" for his little band of Mormon pioneers to settle.

We met them at the Porcupine Bar & Grill. Can I just tell you how stressful it was to pick out the "perfect" place to meet this family for first time? They had just made their own cross-country pilgrimage - in an airplane, of course, not on foot with a handcart and an ox, but still - into uncharted, undocumented territory. We agonized over the right place, with the right ambiance. Nothing too chain-y, something kind of cool and central but that still seems a little kid friendly, and maybe just maybe had a little Utah flare. Borderline impossible task! But porcupine seemed to be a good fit - casual, good food, homemade sodas, and close enough to the canyons that we could drive up and have them appreciate the natural beauty of the Rocky Mountains (aka Utah).

It's called "Our Gift...New Parents."
The perfect offering for a gift from
birth family to adoptive parents. I bawled.

When we walked in to the restaurant, Scott went to shake Juno's mom's hand and she said, "Oh no...we're huggers in this family!" and gave him a big bear hug. That pretty much broke the ice. I am a total hugger! Sometimes, inappropriately huggy. She and I sat next to each other at dinner and she told me that they knew we were the ones from the first time they saw our profile book. "I've ready it at least 50 times. We feel like we know you." They brought us a Willow Tree statuette of a mother and father with a little baby and said, "We want you to know that we believe that this is your baby and that you are meant to be his parents. You never have to worry about that." It was the best day. And the kind of thing where you know, deep in your heart and your bones and everywhere that counts, that these people are "family."

On July 26th, Juno was induced in the morning (she had to get home for volleyball tryouts the following week...yeah, think about that!) so Scott went to work, and I went for an incredibly distracted run with my phone turned up full volume. Just in case. Then we went to lunch, still nothing. We talked to Juno and her family throughout the day and they were playing cards, teaching Paulie how to do the jitterbug or something, and watching sports on TV. We went to the Nordstrom Rack, the Verizon store. We even thought about going to a movie but figured the second the previews were over, we'd get a call to report to the hospital. So we went up to the hospital and hung out for awhile. We were worried that it would be awkward, but it was really cool to spend some quality time with all of them.

Not as cool as a few hours later when we hear Tagg's first cry through the hospital room door, and Paulie came out with tears in his eyes, gave me a big hug with my face in his armpit (he's about a foot taller than me!) and said, 'promise me you'll take care of him." - heartbreaker -

When we finally went in the room, Juno had him in her arms and she looked at me with nothing but content in her eyes, and placed him in my arms. Just like her mom said she wanted to. I look back at the pictures from that day and you can see how much love there is in the room, and around our little boy. Baby mama and daddy smiling, baby grandma and grandpa laughing, me and Scott over the moon with joy, Tagg trying to figure out what the hell just happened. It's an incredibly special moment and one that cements, for me, that adoption can and should be a beautiful experience that is about surrounding a baby with love and family and opportunity. No matter what shape or form or title that takes, it's all that really matters.

my other mother

I love my mom. She is gentle, sweet, loving, even-tempered, patient, tough. She cooks. She sews. She crafts. She loves thoroughly and unconditionally.

But when I married Scott, I got a bonus mom. She's the mom who rousts us out of bed at sunrise every morning for a pre-dawn ski run. She's first in the water no matter what and almost always takes the last run back to the houseboat.

She remembers every birthday, anniversary, special event, favorite candy and meal...for all 7 of her kids, their spouses and all the grandkids. She miraculously feeds and entertains a whole family of 22 for a week on a houseboat with sporadic AC and temperamental bathrooms with never a raised voice or an angry tone.

She runs rivers. She hikes the Grand Canyon. She kicks our asses on the wave-runner race course. She makes wicked yummy jam and fudge jumbles. She still puts out the special "birthday" plate even for us old kids. She certified in scuba last year so she could go diving. Her house is always tidy, the lawn always perfectly manicured.

She's amazing with the grandkids. Mud packs for spa treatments. Sparkly purple pedicures that take 2 hours at the hands of little people. Sand castle competitions where she has half the kids building and half destroying until one of the boys is forced to plug the leaking castle walls with his butt. Water balloon launching - complete with eggs or tomatoes when a plain ol' water balloon just isn't interesting enough. Homemade playdough. Christmas themed treasure hunts. Puzzles, books, tube rides, waterfall chasing, mud pits, water slides with the kids. Her form of entertainment does not include the TV or movies or iPhone games. And I love that. I hate watching our kids instantly morph from these fascinating, creative, curious, lively little people into catatonic, deaf zombies completely entranced the second that little glowing screen lights up. I always wonder how she managed to raise seven kids with such success. Most days I feel like I can barely handle two. And she seems to do it with such calm and cool.

It goes without saying that I love her. That I am eminently impressed by her. That, like my own mom, she inspires me to be not just a better mother but a better person.

cancer-versary

August 13th. It was 10 years ago on August 13th that I got the sorta all-clear for my ass-cancer. They did surgery and I was so worried about ending up with a colostomy bag that every time I came out of that anesthetic fog I asked Scott - did I have to have the bag? Five or six times. Same question. Just as concerned every time.

Not as worried about whether they got all the cancer, whether they found it in those pesky lymph nodes who like to pass cancer cells along like hot potatoes. Nope. Worried about crapping out of my stomach for the rest of my life. I like to think now that it was my big concern because I already knew I had the big-C beat, licked, thumped. But if I'm being honest, I was almost equally worried about the effect on my new husband and our newlywed bliss. What in the heck I would wear boating if bikinis were no longer an option (tutu? mumu? sandwich boards?) And, based on some unfortunate experiences with the temporary colostomy bag, what kind of career I would have left if I farted noisily through my belly-bag in the middle of a serious meeting for the next 20 or 30 years?

So I made it through the chemo and radiation. Six weeks of wearing a fanny pack, of all things, dumping poison into your body while also making you look like a fashion reject 24/7. And bear in mind, Scott and I got married smack dab in the middle of it. Pulled the pic-lines, halted the treatments, had an amazing wedding and went to Puerto Vallarta for a week. I made it through the wedding with all of my hair (eady chemo) and through my honeymoon with my libido intact.

I made it through 5 visits to the hospital, emergency midnight surgeries, near death experiences, blockages, crappy nurses and amazing nurses, borderline prescription drug addiction, a complete Valium blackout during 9/11, a 20 pound weight loss (that part I didn't mind so much except for the little granny butt that came with it),  pot pills, a Froot Loops and Coca-Cola diet, and a one-month stint in the hospital that just about did me in. It was...a lot.

I remember reading some kind of Cosmo quiz a few years after it was all said and done and most of it felt like a bad dream. One of the questions was: Name the best time in your life. And before I could even ponder, reflect or debate my options, I had the answer. When I was sick. Weird, right? But I think there's some truth to that adage that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That experience still reminds me how precious life is, how special every single moment is. It reminds me that when I don't think I can run, or don't want to shake my ass to Zumba some night, I should...just because I can. There were days when I was sick that I was so weak and hampered by drugs that I could barely get off the couch or summon the energy to take a shower. I don't take that for granted any more.

I was so amazed by all of the love that came from the universe, from people I love, people I kind of knew and people I had never even met. There were days toward the end of October where I just didn't think I had the inner strength to keep fighting. I had just about enough gumption to push the button on my morphine pump and that was it. Send me into the dark and that was just fine. Those were the times when I felt this...energy. It lifted me up and gave me strength. Just when I needed it the most. Call it God, call it energy, call it whatever you want but it was definitely there and it came from all kinds of people, all kinds of faith, and I love it.

It also showed me that I am strong. Sometimes you just don't know what you're really made of till you're wearing a fanny pack full of chemo and heading to work every day even though you have to disco nap under your desk most days. Or just how much energy it takes to just put on a brave face and smile in front of your husband and your parents and make a dumb joke even when you're scared shitless. Sometimes you don't realize just how much strength it takes to open your eyes and hope and live.

Being sick also proved to me that Scott is the most amazing man on the planet. I am so lucky to have fallen for him, and even more glad that we sucked it up through the tough times to get through the worst time to get to our best times. That incredible man slept in a hideous vinyl recliner in my room every single night I was in the hospital. He figured out which was the best chair, how to get the VCR n our room and where to snitch the chocolate pudding. He smuggled our new puppy Morgan in to see me in a duffel bag. He celebrated his birthday watching shitty cable TV and nipping on some Captain Morgan he smuggled in in the same duffel bag as the dog. He watched out for me, asked tough questions, tried not to pass out when blood was spilled, kept the well-wishers from becoming well-wearing-you-outers. He kept everyone positive and laughing and thinking nothing but the best.

And he loved me. Even when I crapped out of my stomach. Even when I dropped into a drug-induced coma in mid-sentence. Even when he cleaned my wounds, fed me pills, tried to find foods I would eat to stave off the dramatic weight loss. Even when his new bride slept for 4 months, in a hospital bed and on the couch. Even when we made midnight runs to the emergency room with a puke bowl in the car. Even after 8 weeks of Animal Planet. Even when our hopes for babies of our own crashed and burned, and when the hot flashes and night sweats punctuated the end of that particular dream. He was and always will be my rock and my best friend and my great love.

Even 10 years years later, five years after the official all-clear, I still live with a little cloud over my head. Always wondering if the other shoe is going to drop. If it's going to come back. It's paranoid, for sure. But in some ways that little sense of foreboding keeps me honest. You can't forget the importance of life, love and all the little things when you've been on the brink and back.

So here's to the next 10 years and the 10 after that and the 10 after that! And, more importantly, to enjoying, appreciating and living this wonderful life.

it's in the cards

When you marry a man, you marry his whole family.

I know. This is not a news flash.

Or maybe it is. I always seem to be counseling my younger friends and co-workers to make sure you know what you're getting into. Every major event in your life from here on out is going to be shared with these people - they can make it wonderful or they can make it hell.

I remember really liking Scott's family when I first met them 13 years ago. My first recollection is of going to Sunday dinner at their house. I actually think it was Thanksgiving dinner but Scott thinks it was just a normal family dinner so we'll go with that. I was completely intimidated. Not just to meet my boyfriend's family (and, honestly, at the time I was barely sure he was even boyfriend material) but they were...Mormons. Really Mormon. For a girl who drinks and swears like a reality TV star trying to make a good first impression, it was a nerve-wracking and -wrecking experience. But they were great even though I dropped the G-bomb (God) about a half-dozen times. Apparently this is the equivalent of saying "fuck" when you are in the company of Mormons. Scott had warned me. And yet I was so worried about inadvertently dropping the actual F-bomb, I totally forgot to watch out for the G-bomb. Hey, in my defense, they were the ones who wanted to play cards. That totally brings out the competitive, locker-room trash-talking sailor in me. My God, what the fuck do you expect?

It was the card nights that really showed me that this was meant to be. They play the same card games as my family (devout card players, one and all) except what we call "Oh Hell" they call "Knock Knock." And they play with the same competitiveness and good-natured ribbing as my family does.  Maybe a little less competitive. I've never heard of any of them being banned from a good game of Cancellation Hearts like my dad and I are banned from playing Monopoly.

I think everyone should think about not just the man they marrying but the family. If they come from good, fun, loving , hard-working, big-hearted people who are kind of like your people, you've got a pretty good shot. If they like to play cards, things are looking good. And if nothing else, at least you'll look forward to family vacations and Thanksgiving dinners for the next 50 years.

skis for sippies

Our family ritual at Lake Powell starts with a pre-dawn tap on the shoulder. Scott's mom rises just as the sun starts to paint the sky yellow-orange and sneaks about the houseboat stealthily waking the stalwart waterskiers, those of us willing to sacrifice the warmth of our sleeping bags and a few hours of sleep for that oh-so-precious Lake Powell commodity - glass. That 80-degree water that reflects a mirror image of the cliffs and the sunrise and begs for your ski to cut first tracks.

When we first hear Sandy moving around, heads pop up like groundhogs from unrecognizable piles of pillows and quilts. Hair like muppets, eyes puffy from a late night of cards, breath rank from too many rounds of the cookie barge - a plastic cookie tray that circles the card table with everything from jerky and Cheetos to fudge jumbles and Oreos. Armed with sweatshirts and blankets even though the water is 78 degrees just like the air temperature before it soars back up to it's typical 3-digit day, we head off in search of "the" water, ears and eyes strained to make sure we beat all the other ski boats to the punch.

You can't really explain skiing the "butter" at Lake Powell. These two- or three-hundred-foot high sculpted red rock cliffs mirrored in perfectly smooth blue water embrace you on either side as you carve back and forth on the glassy water. Usually all by yourself, not another boat in sight. It's like a religious experience.

This week, however, with two toddlers to mind, we have traded our morning ski runs for childcare duties. We are still up at the ass crack of dawn, mind you, watching the sun poke her head over the canyon walls. But now instead of throwing down some sweet cuts and shooting up a backlit ski spray, we are changing diapers, filling sippy cups, wiping runny noses and parsing out Cheerios one at a time to avoid a crumbly carpet disaster. 

The first day, I sat in the houseboat amazed at the miracle of my little diaper-clad daughter climbing on and off the couch giggling proudly at her own antics. Tender-hearted and teary at the sight of my tow-headed son and his daddy snoring rhythmically, each with a hand tucked casually behind his head in a picture of complete bliss and relaxation.

And then I heard the far-off familiar rumble of a ski boat taking off. I could picture the skier being tugged out of the water, chest tight and nerves high with anticipation for a sweet run in perfect water and, for a fleeting moment, I longed for that peaceful exhilaration of the morning ski run. And then Sloane ran over with arms spread wide and captured my legs in a 1-year-old bear hug. That is my new butter.

drinking in the sunset

Sunsets are my favorite, favorite thing. The only thing that makes a good sunset better is enjoying it with a nice glass of wine while you watch the sun paint watercolor swaths across the sky, gilding the clouds with a heavenly glow. Lake Powell has some pretty epic sunsets. Something about the red sandstone cliffs towering over the aquamarine water and the crystal blue sky combine to create this incredible, unusual canvas for the sun to work her magic on. And if there's clouds? All bets are off. Spectacular!

This is not my picture. Lost camera...remember?
But we did have a sunset that looked
almost just like this so I'm borrowing it...
just so you get the flavor.

Some of the most breathtaking sunsets I've ever seen were at Lake Powell. Other top ones on the list? Maui on the surf beach. Puerto Vallarta on our honeymoon 10 years ago. And, oddly enough, good ol' SLC busts out some pretty fantastical sunsets. I'm guessing it has to do with the water vapor over the Great Salt Lake which is west of the city and embraced by the mountain ranges on either side. So there are some gorgeous, stop-the-car-on-the-interstate-to-take-a-picture-worthy sunsets here.

Anyway, back to the story...when we go to Powell with Scott's family we don't drink. As far as people know anyway. Every so often the 52-ounce gas station drink mug has a little special sauce along with the Gatorade. Not drinking is not a big deal, but I do find it frustrating that I can't pour myself a nice little glass of Chardonnay, wander up to a sandstone peak for a front row view of those gorgeous sunsets and a few minutes of peace and pondering. Sometimes I want to just bust out a bottle, a glass and a corkscrew, say I'm over 40, life is short and sunsets are just better with wine and go for it.

But I don't. Because I love and respect my family and their beliefs. And let's face it, wine or no wine, a good sunset will still give you a nice buzz that has absolutely nothing to do with alcohol content.

kids' meal

It was flashback lunch today. Someone brought bologna. And Wonder Bread. So I made my all-time favorite sandwich from my elementary/junior high school days. Bologna and mayonnaise on white bread. Mmm, mmm. I was surprised - and a little scared - by how good it still tasted. Even though I know it's lips and assholes and fat and horrible for you. Still yummy.

And then I polished it off with the rest of Tagg's chicken nuggets (please refer to the Jamie Oliver chicken-nuggets-are-disgusting-post to reinforce that, yes, I do know these are disgusting items of non-food) and Sloane's Sponge Bob Square Pants mac and cheese (I also loathe gratuitous commercialization of faux food for the sheer purpose of suckering children into eating shit, but as they say, when in Rome...). Not exactly a healthy, natural meal. But sometimes carrots and grilled chicken just can't compete. Even your diet deserves a vacation every so often, right? Back to the real food next week!

handwritten

Sometimes I am a complete moron. I had grand plans for our trip to Lake Powell. Visions of a seven-hour car ride - each way - to write and record the trip and the memories. To work on this screenplay I've got cooked up in my head but only have about two pages worth down on paper. I even envisioned taking all of our photos and movies from the trip and whipping up an iMovie to share with everyone on the last night. Like I said, grand plans. Especially if you consider that we have 22 people on the boat, 2 little kids to watch, waterskiing, tubing and wakeboarding to squeeze in, cards to play till the wee hours and maybe - if there's time - a few hours to sleep. What can I say? I'm an optimist!

So maybe it was Freudian what happened. We were somewhere around Beaver (yes, that's a real place in Utah...Beaver.) when the battery light on my MacBook went red. Mayday. That meant I had a good 10 minutes to pull out the inverter which plugs into the cigarette lighter (now known as a "power point"- much more politically correct, don't you think?), dig through my backpack to pull out the...SHIT! Power cord. I have a power cord on my desk at the office. And one on my desk at home. Multiple power cords. You know, so I don't have to lug that .25 pounds of cord back and forth every day. And both of them were safely ensconced in their usual hang-outs waiting to breathe life back into my laptop. Three-hundred miles and seven days away from my quickly fading battery. So much for grand plans.

So I resorted to hand-writing my thoughts. Capturing a week full of memories and experiences with pen and paper. Kicking it old school. My hands are unused to this exercise. Typing has ruined them for script. They cramp easily. Damn carpal tunnel. My handwriting is terrible. I hope I'll be able to decipher these loopy scratchings. And I keep skipping letters in some kind of unintentional shorthand. But even though it is a pain (literally), I hope and think that someday I'll appreciate having this "old-fashioned" personal journal documenting our trip. It's kind of raw and natural and pure which is exactly what I love about Lake Powell.

Besides, I'm going to need to paint pictures of this trip through those lovely, descriptive, hand-written words. You see, in yet another tribute to my moron-ness, I seem to have lost my camera with all 300+ photos on it. Excellent.

two minutes from tragedy

Our drive to Lake Powell is usually about 6 hours. With 6 kids and 4 vehicles caravanning, it was tracking to be more like 7 and a half hours. Then we bumped into construction, more construction so we pulled over for a couple of minutes to wait for Scott's mom and brother and then we took off again, promptly lost cell service, and then one more set of taillights greeted us with their warning gleam. 

This time it was different.

We had barely put the car in park when we saw smoke coming from just ahead. It was a wreck and it looked like a bad one. Scott ran up to see if he could help, and to make sure that the cars involved weren’t anyone in our family who were several minutes ahead of us. When he came back to our truck, all he could do was shake his head while tears streamed down his face.

A black SUV, just like the one his brother drives, was flipped on its side blocking both lanes of traffic. What used to be a Lexus was off to the side of the road, hood smashed, engine in the trunk and the driver’s body tossed on the asphalt 10 feet from the car. If there was anyone else in the car, you wouldn't know it. We all hoped he was diving alone. The boat that used to be attached to the SUV was upside down in the grassy ravine, trailer twisted like a pretzel another dozen yards away at the end of a treasure chest of coolers, bags and lifejackets. And then there were the bleeding children, screaming adults and the signature tennis shoe perched in the middle of the road. Right next to the dead man.

No survivors. Not surprising.
Our truck is right behind the RV at the right of this photo.

We were the sixth car from the accident. A couple of minutes either way - like those two minutes we pulled over to wait for his mom and brother - and things could have been totally different. We could be joyfully packing up our houseboat ready for a week of fun, oblivious to any tragedy. We could have been in the middle of it, veering wildly hoping to avoid the oncoming car and failing, lives completely changed and ruined in a matter of seconds. Or we could be sitting in the 100 degree heat for two-plus hours, blessing our luck, thanking god, that we are all fine. Sweaty, but fine. It's not often that you start a vacation staring death and drama and Life Flight in the face. It sure makes you appreciate all of those little strokes of fate and luck that keep you safe and happy.

I was so impressed by the first responders – doctors, EMTs, even my brother in law who is trained in some emergency techniques for his job as a river guide – and for the people who dug through thier cars to find first aid kits that might, hopefully, help save a life or ease some suffering. 

Sadly, this guy let his kids get way closer
to the carnage before the helicopter arrived.
And he was not alone.
Lots of little people saw broken and dead bodies.

And I was equally disgusted by all the gawkers who wandered up to see the carnage with big gulps and cameras, by the parents who let their small children run right up to the scene of the crash. (Hey, assholes...You need some popcorn? See any good gore? Yeah. There are REAL DEAD PEOPLE right there and you're acting like it's a parade.) And by the man who was in such a hurry that he recklessly flew past slow moving vehicles not caring that getting wherever he was headed was not somehow just as important as the life of a man and his family headed the other direction.

I guess that’s the thing about life, isn’t it? For every instance of bad luck, there is good luck. For every hero, there’s a villain. For each blessing, there may be tragedy.

Thank you, thank you to whatever higher spirit convinced us to pull over for a couple of minutes so we weren't the SUV in the middle of the wreck and the road and the carnage. Sometimes you just never know what a difference two minutes can make.