CryBaby

I cry. A lot. It’s just who I am. I cry when I’m happy (like when I see Vicki walk down that stair-ramp onto the tarmac at Homer’s airport, knowing that my best friend has finally arrived). I cry when I’m sad (like when my firstborn baby girl gets on that plane that will take her three thousand miles away and I know I won’t get a chance to argue with her again for another 12 months). I cry when I’m proud (high school graduations get me every time!). I cry when I’m mad (anger drips from my eyes every damn time). I cry. A lot. It is one thing that sets me apart.

Honestly, I’ve never known anyone who cries more easily than I do. It frustrates me. The tears come at the most inconvenient times. I hate it. I wish I could stop it. I can’t. It’s who I am. I fear that they show weakness.

The one word that has been used to describe me more than any other word is “brave.” That seems funny knowing that I’m such a crybaby. I’m crying as I type this. I feel things deeply. More deeply than most, I suspect. Does that make me weak? Not a bit. Brave? Absolutely!

Tears give me strength. I’m not sure how that happens, but it does. Every time. The tears always bring clarity. I suspect that Kevin, who has been mentoring me on running the business this summer, worries at my tears. He has surely seen me cry more than anyone in my life with the exception of my children. That’s because the past 60 days have brought more happiness, sadness, pride, and anger than any other time in my life.

The tears have been there. I try to hide them. I go outside by the recycling shed and look up at the sky and wish them away. I walk into the walk-in freezer and try to dry them up in the bitter cold. I stare at the ovens in the bakery, with my back to the restaurant, cursing the damned tears running down my cheeks.

It’s just who I am. It doesn’t mean I’m weak. It doesn’t mean I need some time away. It simply means that I care.

I cry. A lot. It’s just who I am

Mistakes

I make a lot of them. Just ask Kevin. However, I learn from every one. Yesterday was a perfect example.

I was making Russian Tea Cakes (in Louisiana, we called them Mexican Wedding Cookies, but since we can see Russia from here…). The recipe called for three cups of chopped nuts. I got out the bag of sliced almonds and started chopping them, handful by handful, on the bakery bench with a Sudoku knife. Three cups is a lot of nuts to chop. Finally, as I was chopping the last of them, Kevin walked in and said, over his shoulder, “I would have used the Cuisinart.”

Sigh. Duh! I’m used to making family recipes that call for a one cup chopped nuts and I have always chopped them by hand because it’s not enough to dirty up my food processor. However, three cups would have been a breeze in the food processor.

An hour later, the Tea Cakes were out of the oven and ready to roll in powdered sugar. I got a small bowl, just like I do at home, and began to painstakingly roll each one in the powdered sugar. Kevin walked into the bakery and laughed out loud this time, wishing he had a camera.

“Kathy! Get a big bowl and fill it with powdered sugar and dump all of the cookies in there at once to toss them.”

Sigh. Duh!

He tells me he’s going to break me of all of my homecooking habits, my Suzie Homemake habits, my Marth Stewart habits. I’m used to cooking for 2-10, not 40-100. There’s a big difference and a huge learning curve!

My muffins aren’t high enough. My lattes don’t have enough foam. I forgot the shredded cheese in the spinach pinwheels. My cookies aren’t flat enough. The baker’s knife is missing. I didn’t get the menus printed out for the front of the house early enough. I filled the soup bowl too full. My Lemon Cream Cheese Bars didn’t set well in the middle because the pan is too big. My Oatmeal Cookies are burned. The smoothie was supposed to be Peach, not Raspberry. The schedules aren’t made. We’re out of biscuits. I sprinkled yeast instead of Cinnamon Sugar on the Danish. I was supposed to order Take-Out Menus two days ago.

Overwhelmed? Yes. Mistakes? Yes.

Determined? Absolutely!

As a side note, you should know that Kevin and Donna Maltz are the wonderful folks from whom I'm buying the restaurant. They’ve owned it for 30 years and Kevin is spending this summer mentoring/training me on how to run the business. Thank goodness for their unending patience and belief in me!

Take a Number

With the opening of The Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery & Café happening in less than 60 hours, people are constantly asking me, “How do you feel? Are you scared? Are you excited?...”

“Yes.”

I feel scared, excited, nervous, joyous, overwhelmed, and hopeful all at the same time, every minute of the day.

Last Thursday was my last day at the Homer News and my boss, Lori, called me into her office for my exit interview. She asked me that question and I gave her that answer. Then, I paused as I tried to explain what I was truly feeling to a person who has become my mentor, cheerleader, and truly an angel in my life these past 14 months.

It feels like I’ve been waiting all my life for this moment. It’s like when I go to the DMV and have to take a number, 45, and sit in one of the 20 chairs lined up in the waiting area. I know I’m going to be there a while. I knew it before I came so I brought a book. I patiently wait, shifting in the hard, plastic chair as I see the glowing, red numbers slowly tick by on the black counter on the wall every time the tired lady in the window calls a number.

“15.”

My first “real” job was as a waitress at the Wannigan Pancake House in Hayward, Wisconsin. Through the years, I also waited tables at Karibalis Restaurant and served up ice cream in homemade waffle cones at the mini-mall on Main Street in that same small town. Again, I waited tables at Cuco’s Mexican Restaurant in Ruston, Louisiana, while going to school for my Master’s degree.

“24.”

Married with a newborn and a meager income, I began to experiment with cooking. My mother gave me a couple of recipes that were my favorite meals that my grandmother made – Mexican Casserole was my runaway favorite. A simple mixture of canned foods and ground beef, it quickly became a staple in our household.

“30.”

I remember making my first Thanksgiving dinner when we lived in Idaho. It was shortly after that wonderful meal that I discovered FoodTV. I already had a good start on a recipe book collection, but that channel devoted to food opened a whole new world to me.

“33.”

I catered a couple of small events, 12-20 people at a business meeting. I was really getting into this whole cooking thing. I even began working a side job as a Pampered Chef Consultant. I did that on and off for 10 years, across three states. I loved teaching people about cooking and using the wonderful, restaurant-grade cooking tools that the company offered.

“38.”

I submitted a recipe for Cheesy Clam Manicotti to Quick Cooking magazine and they published it! Then, they chose it as one of their best recipes of the year to publish in their Taste of Home 2005 Annual Cookbook. Cooking and experimenting with new recipes was my all-consuming hobby. I loved having friends over for elaborate dinners or throwing theme parties for my girls. The April Fool’s party was the best – cookie sandwiches that looked like hamburgers and a cheesecake that was actually a huge layered sandwich. The hand-shaped ice in the Halloween punch was a big hit, too.

“40.”

Constantly experimenting with recipes, particularly baked goods, I was always taking overflow Mocha Chip Muffins, Toffee Scones, and cookies of all types to the break room at work to share with co-workers. The only magazine subscriptions I’ve had for years have been cooking magazines. I love to sit around and read recipes! Add to that the fact that baking is like therapy for me, and you can see that I’m always making more than my two daughters and I can possibly eat. I also started teaching cooking classes at the middle and high schools and there was always a waiting list.

“44.”

It’s almost time. My number is next.
Invited to teach cooking classes for teens at our local Rec Room in Homer, I was flattered, to say the least. Just last summer, I experimented with a variety of brownie recipes and made an attempt to sell them through a local eatery. That idea was quickly kaput after I found out that I had to cook them in a DEC approved kitchen in order to sell them to the public. I even looked into setting up a baked goods booth at the Farmer’s Market, but ran into the same problem. I just really felt that I belonged in the food industry. I came up with a solution…-

“45.”

Really?! They’ve finally called my number! I feel like I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this (actually, I have been waiting a lifetime). My solution is that I bought a restaurant. My very own DEC kitchen and the staff to go with it! Throw in an incredible bakery and I’ve got a dream come true!

“That’s what it feels like.” I told Lori, “It feels like my number has finally been called.”

Personal Space

Little over a year ago, I left the bush. It feels like a lifetime has passed. Time and distance have given me perspective. One of the most obvious differences between Western culture and Yupik culture has to do with personal space.

As Americans, we naturally have a need for increased personal proximity. This first became apparent to me during my visit to London several years ago.

“Tighten up!” was the most used phrase of our tour guide. As 40 of us walked in a group through the streets of London, it was imperative that we not get too spread out. In museums, we were expected to stand in such a tight group that we were continually touching each other. Our guide found humor in our American need to have space around us. On the Tube, on the sidewalks, in the small cafés, even in the tiny hotel rooms, personal space was not a luxury in which Londoners indulged.

As Americans, we are used to wide open spaces whether it’s urban sprawl, wide open countryside, or large, spacious homes. We like breathing room.

Yupiks bring a third alternative to this equation. Living on the tundra provides all of the wide open space that one could hope for. However, the personal space issue is muddied by the absence of an understanding of personal property. Ownership is not easily understood in the village mindset. This new way of thinking swallowed us whole from the moment our 4-seater bush plane landed on the dirt airstrip surrounded by marsh.

We had barely set our suitcases down inside of our house when there was a knock at the door.

“Can we visit?” a group of four 10-year-old boys seemed to chime in unison. This was an absolute first for me.

Before I knew what was happening, we had a living room filled not only with unpacked totes, but also with scruffy little native boys trying on hockey gear that they had never seen before. Wide smiles and bright eyes welcomed us to our new home with a familiarity that let us know that they had been here before. Over the next several days, elementary-age boys and girls frequented our home with a veracity I had never seen. It was overwhelming, to say the least. The knocks on the door with the voices calling, “Can we visit?” started early in the morning. When we told them it was time to leave, they always asked, “When can we come back?”

A quick walk through the village provided some explanation. Plywood shacks with barely a wood stove for heat. No running water in any of the homes other than the teacher housing. There were larger (3 bedroom?) stick-built homes which housed up to 12 family members, maybe more. I was never invited inside a Yupik home so I have no idea what they were like on the inside, but the outside definitely told a story. Loose dogs cowered when approached – obviously the victims of abuse. Broken down appliances, machinery, and snow machines littered the front yards.

One little boy (we’ll call him Michael, for safety’s sake) was visiting our house. He was quiet and always wore a filthy, stained hoody with the hood up over his head, hiding his right ear which was continually bleeding from an abscess or infection of some sort. He did his best to hide it from me and wouldn’t let me look at it because he was embarrassed. One evening, when it was time for him to go home so that we could have some down time before bed, he pleaded with us to let him stay. His big brown eyes glossed over as he said, “I can just sleep on the [coffee] table. I don’t even need a blanket.” It tore my heart to send him home, but I knew enough about cultural differences to know that it would not be acceptable to allow him to stay the night. I prayed for him to be kept safe that night as I watched him walk away. Who knew what he was even going home to.

On days when we said, “No visitors today,” the children would perch on our front steps as if to wait us out.

Our house, like most in the village, was built on 4-foot-high stilts. The entire underneath of our house was wide open. It’s where I put Nali’s doghouse to keep it out of the weather. There was miscellaneous junk stored under there from previous tenants, even a snow machine. But, to the village kids, it was a playland. Often, they could be heard banging around under there. Eventually, I would have to tell them to leave. They didn’t understand the concept of ownership – that this house was my property and they needed to stay away unless invited. That is not the Yupik way, but it was the only way that I knew.

As local children and adults meandered around my house on a daily basis, trash was dropped everywhere. Soda pop cans. Candy wrappers. Whiskey bottles. Chip bags. You name it – it was in my yard. Sarah and I would spend an hour picking up trash only to have more trash reappear the next day. Truth be told – we did not have a yard. Our property was community property, period. That included our front steps.

We also learned that we needed to keep our front door locked at all times to prevent people from just walking in. Once we had been there a week or two, we were considered locals, I suppose. That meant no more knocking. Kids would walk right in. Even the maintenance man would walk right in. Not a knock. Not a “Hello?” Not a warning. Just an entrance.

That was something I never got used to. I realized that I’m more American than I’d like to admit. I need my own space. I need my own property. It doesn’t make me a better person. It doesn’t make me a worse person. It’s just who I am.

It's a No-Shadow Day

Today is the first day in a couple of weeks without bright blue skies and sun so bright that its marriage with the snow is blinding. The sky is gray today. Rain is in the forecast. As Aprils go, this has been a dry one. Day after day of 40 degrees have given us all that renewed hope that Spring will not disappoint us this year. It is coming. It’s almost as if I can hear it in the distance, like the pounding hooves of a herd of buffalo. The rumbling. The excitement. Spring will rush past us and fade into the distance, leaving us in its dust, literally. The dry, paved streets are laden with dirt dropped all winter by sanding trucks. The pillows of dust force me to keep my own car windows rolled up and the air vent circulating only the air already inside the car. Soon, the sweepers will come through, leaving us with clean, dry streets for our summer guests.

The absence of shadows today strikes me in a metaphoric way. Shadows often hold fearful places in our imaginations. They follow us around. They can even be a place to hide. Stepping out from the shadows can be both a risky and freeing thing to do. I feel like I’m in that very place in my life, not that I have been purposefully staying in the shadows, but that I am on the verge of stepping away from everything familiar. I’m also breaking away from the past, that has in some ways been a haunting one, and stepping into my future.

Over the next four months, my entire life is going to change. I will be running my own restaurant/bakery and I will be an empty-nester. I have spent the last 22 years as a mother, 14 of those as a single mother. I have always held a steady job working for someone else who provided my health insurance, retirement, and paid time off. My free time was spent absorbed in my children - coaching their activities, hosting sleepovers, and monitoring homework. All of that ends in 4 months.

I had a dream the other night that I was once again a teacher. I was at some sort of teacher training and there were about 10 of us in a classroom waiting for the workshop to begin. Several of the teachers were chatting about their experiences teaching in the bush. I told the woman sitting in front of me that I had taught in Kwethluk. Her eyes grew wide and she turned around in her desk chair to face me as I gave her the 60 second version of my experience there. She was dumbfounded, even confused, as she responded, “But, you don’t LOOK like that happened to you.”

I answered, “That’s because I am healed.” Then I started crying. I woke up with tears in my eyes, wondering just how healed I really am. Does a person ever really “heal” after an experience like that? Perhaps not, but I do feel like I’m slowly stepping away from that shadow.

I’m not sure what my new life is going to look like, but somehow, I’m ready to embrace it.

My Sister

My parents divorced when I was nine. That was when my father told me that I had a sister. Wow. Talk about a jaw-dropping moment. Apparently, he had been married before my mother and they divorced while she was pregnant. She was from a wealthy, influential family in Southern California and my dad had a blue-collar Northern Missouri upbringing. They had met one summer when he was working on her family’s ranch in California. They fell in love and settled in Iowa. Their romance was short-lived and when she left, her family contacted my father and struck a deal with him. If he promised to never try to contact the unborn baby, they would never come after him for child support. He was a young 28 and from humble means. He acquiesced.

Five years later, he was remarried to my mother and I was born. When he told me about Holly, I was excited and sad all at the same time. He told me her name and that she was five years older than me. That was it. End of discussion. He just wanted me to know, but also explained his vow never to contact her. I was an only-child and I would never meet my sister.

When I turned 11, I thought to myself, “Holly’s having her Sweet Sixteen birthday this year. She’s in high school. I wonder what she’s like…”

When I graduated from high school and was considering college plans, I thought to myself, “I wonder where Holly went to college… or if she went to college…”

When people would comment that I looked like my dad, I thought to myself, “I wonder if Holly looks like my dad.”

When I got married, I wished I could have my sister in my wedding. When each of my children were born, I thought of Holly’s children.

She haunted me for 18 years. My dad and I seldom mentioned her. She had her life. We had ours. But, somehow, that wasn’t enough for me.

Then, one Thanksgiving, my dad came to visit us. My daughters were 5 and 1 ½. Dad watched them play together and something was touched deep inside of him. Sisters.

When he got back home, he pulled out an old shoe box that he had saved for over 30 years. Inside were various, faded pieces of paper. Holly’s mother’s social security number. Address. The name of her divorce attorney. The telegram that he had received in early January of 1962 letting him know that a baby had been born and named. The few mementos he had saved all these years. He mailed it all to me with a promise that he wanted no part of the search. If I wanted to find her, that was my business, but he wanted to stay out of it. He had given his word.

I immediately went to work, with the help of the internet, trying to find out what I could. I managed to get a copy of her birth certificate (did you know that you can do that?) and eventually find out where she went to elementary school. But, after 6 months, I just didn’t seem to be making any progress. I told my dad about my frustration and he made me an offer to pay for a private investigator. I had to be the sole contact. He would simply write the check.

I found a P.I. in Southern California and $700 later, the search began. He called me every week to give me updates.

He found out her mother had remarried.
She went to high school in Arizona.
She went to college in Arizona on a music scholarship.

Each week when he’d call, he was always sure to ask me if I wanted him to continue. He became a sort of counselor for me, trying to prepare me for whatever we might find. She could be dead. She could be homeless, a drug addict, a prostitute. We didn’t know what she'd been told, if anything, about her real father. She might not know the truth. She might not want to know. Every week, I told him that not knowing was worse than anything he might find out.

He found out she was married and had kids.
She had lived in California.

Six weeks into the investigation, I answered the phone one day at my job in Northern Idaho, “Coldwater Creek. This is Kathy. How may I help you?”

“We found her.” The voice on the other end was familiar and tears filled my eyes. He told me that she was living in San Jose, California. He had her current, married name, address, phone number, husband’s name, and knew that she had two kids. He asked if I wanted him to stake out and find out where she worked, where her kids went to scho--

“Stop!” I’m sure I said it a little too loud. All I needed was her name and address.

That warm June evening, I wrote her a letter. I explained who I was, how thrilled I was to have a sister, and asked her to call me. In the envelope, I included a couple of pictures of me with my daughters. I sent it Certified Mail, Return Receipt Requested so that she would have to sign for it at the post office and I’d be notified. At least I would know that she received the letter, even if I never heard from her. Done.

On her end a few days later, she received the notice and had her teenage son in the car with her when she went to the post office to pick up the letter. Curiosity got the best of her and she opened the envelope as soon as she got back into the car. The pictures fell out in her lap and her son grabbed them. While she began reading the letter, Wes said to her, “Mom, why does this lady look so much like you?”

She called me that night and, as luck would have it, my dad was at my house for a visit. Turns out that she was raised with the truth. Her mom had remarried when Holly was 12 and he had adopted her. Her mother’s philosophy had been, “We were young and dumb. We have a nice life. Let’s hope he has a nice life.” Holly never questioned it. She was concerned that if he had done this once, he may have children everywhere. She might have half-siblings everywhere. Her life was good the way it was and she had decided not to delve into what might turn out to be very complicated. To her relief, it was not complicated at all. She was also an only-child, biologically. Her mother had adopted a brother for Holly when she was young but had never given birth to any more children. Holly and I were each other’s only biological sibling.

Holly was as anxious to meet me as I was to meet her. However, she was six months pregnant and wanted me to wait to visit until after the baby was born, so that I could meet the whole family.

In September of 1996, my dad bought a plane ticket for me to fly out to see Holly for a long weekend. Twenty years of imagining what my sister looked like. Twenty years of praying for her. Twenty years of sharing my life with her in the silence of my heart. Twenty years of waiting and wondering. As the plane circled over the San Francisco airport and began its descent, I began to cry. Twenty years of pain and loneliness washing down my face, tear by tear. By the time I left the plane and began to walk down that portable tunnel to building, I was a complete mess. I saw her immediately, standing next to her husband who was holding a baby-carrier. Her dark hair, dark eyes and that Kysar nose were all a dead give-away. I ran to her arms and blubbered something about being happy to see her. She was dry eyed and probably a little shocked at my emotion. A few deep breaths and several tissues helped me make my way to the luggage carousel and then to their car.

Holly and I spent that afternoon drinking Chamomile tea and sharing photo albums. I’d brought one with pictures of my childhood with my dad and she pulled out one with pictures of our dad and her mom’s wedding. It was like looking at a story book of strangers. It was strange and comforting all at the same time. The cracks were sealed. The puzzle was whole.

That weekend, we went shopping at the Wharf where people immediately recognized us as sisters everywhere we went. We went to Sears and bought matching sweaters and had our portrait made together – like we were kids. Our first portrait. We laughed and cried and talked and talked and talked. Sunday came much too quickly and we were back at the airport.

This time, she cried. I was all smiles. It was an answered prayer for me. A twenty-year mystery was solved. For her, it was just beginning. I had known about her for 20 years. She had known about me for only three months. She wasn’t ready for me to leave. We were sisters. The bond had been forged.

I left that day with a light heart and a smile that wouldn’t quit. I had a sister!

Holly and I are as close today as ever. We don’t get to see each other as often as we like. But, we have gotten our families together over the years, taken vacations together, and talk on the phone as regularly as time allows. Dad has even gone to visit her and they now keep in contact. She and her husband, Brent, came to visit me just this past summer in Homer. I can’t imagine my life without her and I’m sure she’d say the same.

Winter Thoughts

It’s an overcast, 28 degree Sunday morning with snow in the forecast and many things on my mind. Sundays are often reflective days for me and this one is no different. Its days like these when I really wish I had a close friend who lived nearby. Not having a friend/partner to confide day to day thoughts is difficult, but it’s just the way life is for me.

Losing Weight. Because of Take Shape for Life’s incredible weight loss program, I’ve managed to lose 25 pounds since the first of the year. That comes to 2 pants sizes! I’m determined to lose another 25, hopefully by the end of March. We won’t talk about what my starting weight was, but my goal is to get back to where I was about 8 years ago. Also, because I’m such a believer in this medically-backed (by doctors at Johns Hopkins) program, I’m now a Health Coach helping others to get healthy, too. Food is such an important part of my life and with my own bakery/restaurant looming on the horizon, it’s time to be in control of what and, more importantly, how much I eat. (as a side note, if you want to know more about this incredible program, ask me)

The Restaurant. It’s beginning to feel a little daunting. As summer slowly approaches, out-of-state friends/family talk about coming to visit. Normally, I’d be jumping at these chances to show folks my slice of paradise here in Homer. However, this summer will be my first summer at the restaurant and I’m anticipating 18-hour days with no time off. We serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner, in addition to providing catering, box-lunch services and a full-on bakery in a booming tourist destination May through September, with June-August being the busiest months of the year. Summer is over in September, and the snow flies in October. Despite my excitement over running the restaurant, there is some disappointment that my days of summer halibut and salmon fishing are over. No jumping on board a friend’s floatplane for a last minute flight over the glaciers in mid-July. No lazy days picking Fireweed flowers in August for homemade jelly. No time to spend with friends and family hiking across the bay or paddling a kayak or just driving around taking pretty pictures. Summer vacation? What’s that?

I still want people to come visit in the summer because there is SO much to do here. However, they might just have to do it without me. (sad face) On the other hand, I’ll make sure they’re well fed!

My Sister. Her father is suffering from end-stage Diabetes and everything that comes with it. He’s in the hospital for the last time. He’s 85 years old. It’s sad. Heartbreaking, really. I was with my sister when she lost her mother to Lupus eight years ago. I helped her pick out a dress to wear to the funeral. Actually, I could hardly see her in the dressing room through all of my tears. I feel things very deeply where she is concerned. You must be wondering why I’m talking about “her” father and “her” mother when we’re sisters. The short version is that she and I have the same biological father but she was raised by her mother who married a man who adopted her and she’s always known him as her dad. Holly and I met for the first time 15 years ago and we’ve been sisters ever since. (detailed story to be revealed in an upcoming blog post) That said, it’s extremely hard for me to watch her lose her parents. After all, she’s my sister. I feel it almost as if I’m losing my own parents.

Sarah. Time is ticking away. Tomorrow, it will be the end of August and she’ll leave for college. The house will be quiet, too quiet. I’ll pour myself into the restaurant. Her cats will be lost without her. I am so very happy for her and proud of her. Still, there is a heaviness in my heart as the day nears for my last little chick to leave the nest.

Work. I worked two 12-hour days this past week (I know, I know – that’s nothing compared to what’s in store for me this summer…) in addition to the other three regular 9-hour days. I’m trying hard to reach the required budget numbers on a variety of projects at the Homer News. I not only have the weekly paper to sell ads for (3,000 copies distributed weekly), but am also working on the beloved Homer Map (40,000 copies distributed the first of May), Shorebird Festival Guide (27,000 copies distributed mid-April), online Tour Guide – www.HomerAlaska.com (still trying to fulfill that project that went live online January 1), and we’re trying desperately to find a replacement for me in time for me to train them fully before I leave the first of May. Overwhelming? Yes. Can I do it all? Definitely. It’s a weighty feeling to know that 90% of the newspaper budget depends on what I do, or don’t do. I love the Homer News and want it to be successful and thriving, always.

Car. I wrecked my car in a blizzard on the Beluga Slough bridge 3 weeks ago. It took the insurance company 2 ½ weeks to get it together and finally issue a check for damages. I used that check along with my wrecked car as a trade-in (I did not like that creaky, problem-riddled Chrysler Pacifica from the get-go) to buy a worthy 2010 Jeep Patriot 4WD this past Tuesday. Taking care of that kind of a hassle takes a lot of time, especially when you live 90 miles from the nearest car dealer or used car lot. I consulted with my dad over the phone, a lot, throughout the process. Again, it sure would be nice to have a significant other by my side in times like those. In the end, I thought I got a great deal with a good interest rate and all. Because of all of the issues I’d had with the Pacifica, I got the extended warranty and I even talked the dealership into throwing in a set of studded tires (a “must” in Homer). When all was said and done, I walked away with a $260/month car payment and I was all smiles. Of course, when I talked to my dad the next day, he expressed his disappointment in me for the deal I made concerning the warranty and the tires. I try so hard to make the right decisions and I think I made the best decision that I could, all by myself. Still, his disappointment always gets me down.

Men. I’ve been back in touch with an old flame from Louisiana. Things didn’t work out between us all those years ago because I was too afraid of my ex-husband and my mother. My ex had a nasty habit of filing for custody of the girls every time I had a serious boyfriend. My mother tended to side with him. It was ugly and I was a young mother and couldn’t handle the thought that I might lose my kids. I finally gave up and never had another serious relationship. I just couldn’t handle the backlash. I was weak, I know. I’m stronger now. My kids are grown. It’s time to reclaim that part of my life. Michael was a wonderful man, still is. We are both in good places in our lives, now. I know we live a million miles apart, but if he’s willing to see where this goes, so am I. He wants to come visit this summer… (see “The Restaurant” above)

That about sums it up. I feel lighter now. I think it's time for a walk on the beach...