Gary has his say
Posted on Tuesday, August 31, 2010 in the Walla Walla Union-Bulletin
HOME PLACE – Thank you for all of your kindness and support
SHEILA HAGAR
I’ve recently written a couple of columns that have produced a veritable flood of reader responses. Which, I have to admit, is immensely gratifying.
For the most part. Not always, however.
When you’re writing for publication, the safest way through the maze is to imagine you’re writing to family. Maybe your mom will read it to your dad, give Aunt Connie a few snippets over the phone, cut it out for the neighbor. Your grown children might show polite interest (if it’s close to their birthday), and that’s about it.
You never open your eyes wide enough to imagine strangers reading every word. To do so would be to invite paralysis.
Thus it continues to surprise me when people write or call me, expressing an opinion of something I have written or telling me how a column or blog post paralleled their own lives.
Or jumping off something I wrote to tell me — often — incredible stories of their own.
The rush that produces is like mixing rainbows with triple shots of espresso. Makes me feel like I’m here for a reason.
Earlier this month I talked about a book that is going to come out, a compilation of a third or so of the columns I’ve written in the past almost 13 years. As I explained then, it’s nothing I’ve felt any real urge to do in the past.
But, goodness, your responses were waaaay flattering. Many of you sent in one or more memories of your favorite columns that you hope make it in.
“Your columns have never failed to touch my heart. I’ve laughed and cried, and enjoyed each and every one of them since we moved back to Walla Walla 4 years ago and began subscribing to the paper,” Karen A. wrote. “Each time I go out to work in my yard I think of your step-mother (I hope I’m remembering this correctly) gardening in her bathing suit!”
You do remember right, Karen, you do. While I have many other memories of my stepmother, Mary, I’ll never forget that day, either.
Darlene was equally specific — “Among them I would recall: your gratefulness for the presence of John Yantis in your life, a father figure for a young girl; the story of your grandmother’s roses (I have one rose bush from the many my mother grew); your tribute to your brother; and the new relationship with another grieving spouse.”
Thank you, Darlene. Can I just say something? I LOVE that you liked the John Yantis column … it was the only way I could hope to pay his family for that father’s love they willingly shared with me.
Others wrote in, telling me that my columns about my late and deeply loved older brother — who dealt a real blow to the stigma of developmental disability — impacted and encouraged them. Beth, Judy, Harry, Carolyn and more, thank you. That you loved Dwight through my work makes me cry.
Speaking of crying, I also wrote another column on Aug. 17. It was an open letter — wail, really — to God, asking for some respite in this searing grief that is making me all kinds of crazy.
Many of you wrote in and I had a few sweet, sad phone calls. This is not a new problem, of course, and a lot of men and women have the scarred hearts to prove it.
There is Karen, who just lost her husband of 30 years. “I truly understand your pain and grief even after 19 months. The loss of someone you shared so much of your life with does not come easy to the heart …. It seems I could handle the big things like talking to the doctor about his imminent death but just yesterday going to the grocery store for the first time to buy food only for myself brought me to tears … You are doing the best you can with the circumstances you are in. God bless you.”
And Sue, who is almost at a five-month anniversary of her husband’s death after 21 years of marriage. “I have lived and do live each and every one of those feelings. I cry just to cry some days. People might find that odd but I can’t help it. However, like you I have a job and I enjoy it and there are things I still enjoy … I have tried everything; talking to people, reading books on grief, crying, being so busy I can’t breathe, isolation. It just plain doesn’t help. Just know there are so many of us out there and we care about you. You are indeed a good and kind person.”
See? It’s easy to be lulled into a sense of feeling loved, understood and protected. Like a cocoon of fuzzy care, held up by a community of angels. Or some sort of good beings.
But, thank goodness, Gary set me straight, and in all capital letters at that.
He began by mocking my letter, making my first sentence his own. ‘”DEAR GOD THIS HAS GOT TO END.’”
Then Gary got into the meat of his complaint. “PLEASE. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT THE READERS THAT PAY GOOD MONEY FOR THIS RAG WANT TO SEE THIS KIND OF ‘POOR ME’ SYMPATHY BEGGING GO ON AND ON. WE DON’T GIVE A FIG ABOUT YOUR POOR ‘MISERABLE ME’ LIFE. HOW LONG CAN YOU POSSIBLY MILK THIS?? YOU NEED TO UNCURL FROM THE FETAL POSITION AND GET A LIFE!! FIND SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO WRITE ABOUT OR MAYBE A CAREER CHANGE IS INDICATED.
/S/ YOUR (sic) MAKING US MISERABLE
P.S. ANYONE WHO REFERS TO GOD AS ‘DUDE ON HIGH’ SHOULDN’T EXPECT ANY TYPE OF GRACE!”
I didn’t try to interpret Gary’s punctuation or postscript style, preferring to let the raw energy come fully through.
Here’s what I want Gary and everyone else to know. First, compulsory reading of my column has been outlawed in 29 states, including Washington. Please don’t feel like you ever have to read “Home Place” ever again.
Second, well, I don’t know which part to address next. What I consider honesty Gary calls “milking.” Who I see as a loving, amazing God — with a hellavu sense of humor — Gary sees as someone else, it appears. What I view as part of my career, he believes needs to stop.
Oh, Gary, I do write about important people, nearly every day. I get to write about folks who change or save lives, I write about people with tremendous courage, incomprehensible problems and iron-strong characters.
I so love it — feel honored and blessed every single time. So, Gary, I don’t think I will change jobs, thanks anyway for the suggestion. I’m keeping this one until someone else says I am not. And that someone wouldn’t be you, Sir.
Thanks to all of you for writing. You are my real paycheck. Even Gary.
Never fair enough
On my way to work this morning, I was reminded that it’s fair time for the region. The gates don’t open until tomorrow, but the traffic is already showing the signs.
Today I waited until two multi-horse-holding trailers excruciatingly inched around the corner, onto Orchard Street from Ninth Avenue. I was already later than I wanted to be and this seemed to be taking forever.
I didn’t mind at all, as a matter of fact. When I go past those fairgrounds this time of year, my inner child cranes for a peek of carnival equipment and sniffs for hot kettle corn.
As long as I can remember, the Walla Walla Fair & Frontier Days has been special. It became even more so when I met David. For the first time in my life, and right out of a teen romance novel, I had someone to win the coveted and huge stuffed animal from a booth. Meaning I could proudly carry the giant dog around for the whole evening and figuratively shove it in the face of the popular girls from school.
It’s where I also discovered my baby’s intense fear of heights. It was while riding the Octopus together for the first — and last — time that I heard a thin, high scream coming from somewhere beside me. “Stop the ride,” a voice quivered. “Stop this ride!”
Much to my shock, the words were coming from lips flatlined in fear and attached to my boyfriend’s face. His baby blue eyes were squeezed shut and he looked like Casper the Ghost’s cousin. And he was seriously clenching that bar.
This had never happened to me. I loved rides, every ride, couldn’t get enough speed or enough height. I’m the kind of idiot who rocked the Ferris Wheel car as hard as possible when it was paused at the top of the loop. Which totally ticked off my older brother, adding to my pleasure.
Sure enough, the operator heard the cry for help and stopped the zig-zagging, up and down Octopus. With hot red cheeks, I stepped out of the ride and marched away as fast as I could, desperate for the dark of night to swallow me up.
Until I realized my muscular, boisterous and funny boyfriend was helpless on his knees, throwing up every thread of cotton candy he’d consumed.
As mad and embarrassed as I was, I slunk back over to the edge of the Ferris Wheel’s fencing and waited until he could talk. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, struggling to his feet. “I can’t stand heights.”
“Well, why did you get on, then,” I said. Yelled.
“For you,” he said.
Can you blame me for marrying him?
This fair has a million stories like that. I hope if you have one, you’ll share it with the rest of us in the comment section.
We went remote!
For this week’s podcast, we went to a remote location — in other words, we walked a few blocks to Olive Marketplace on Main Street. If you noticed us at our little outdoor table, I hope you waved.
We plan to do more of those, at various locations. Or maybe call up random numbers in the phone book and ask if we can stop by to do a podcast at your house. Remember, dust makes no sound, so you don’t have to worry. Or maybe we should go to the local police stations and see if anything exciting happens while we are there. Like Jeremy getting busted for another speeding ticket.
Anyway, this week we talked about Jeremy losing his wallet out of his…wait for it…unlocked car. Right. Unlocked and yes, he habitually leaves his wallet there. We also, finally, talk about my dating life. Or, rather, non-dating life.
Check it out, find us at almostyourmother.com.(Click HERE) and follow us on Facebook. Or on Twitter, where we had to call ourselves Almostyourmom to fit within the guidelines. You can leave comments on the sites or write to us at almostyourmother@wwub.com.
OK, click HERE for this week’s podcast!
Deriq, we hardly knew ye
I don’t know if you know this, but Internet star and all around amazing creature, Deriq the Octopus, died last month. You may remember I excitedly told you about the eight-legged love in this June post.
I cried (of course I cried, right?) when I saw the posting on Deriq’s Facebook page late last month. Here is the official release on the Hatfield Marine Science Center:
GOODBYE, DERIQ
“We regret to announce that Deriq, the giant Pacific octopus that had been entertaining and engaging visitors to the HMSC Visitor Center since January – and Internet fans around the world since early June – died on July 25.
Aquarists who care for the Center’s marine animals had been monitoring Deriq for several weeks after noticing changes in his feeding and behavior patterns, with tentative plans to release him into the sea later this summer. On July 24, senior aquarist Jose Marrin Jarrin discovered that the octopus was barely moving, and transferred him to a tank in the animal husbandry wing for observation. The animal died the following morning.
The animal husbandry team, under the lead of Dr. Tim Miller-Morgan, Sea Grant Extension fish veterinarian, is investigating why the octopus died. Until they have a better idea, the tank will remain vacant. Once the tank is determined to be safe, a new octopus, currently in quarantine in the husbandry wing, will be installed. As is our practice, the tank will be shrouded for a few weeks while the new animal acclimates before he is unveiled to the public at the Visitor Center and on the Web.”
The thing about Deriq is that he was the first Internet-savvy octopus, waving his beautiful tentacles in the face of the underwater camera. The entire world had the opportunity to see Deriq and his habitat — and habits — up close. There was NOTHING better for stress reduction than to tune into the Deriq show for a few minutes of R&R. For that, my favorite tentacled super hero, I will always be grateful.
I’ll let you all know when I hear that a new tank tenant has moved in. In the meantime, please refrain from eating sushi for a day in honor of Deriq.
It has to end…right?
The following is my Home Place column that ran Tuesday in our newspaper, in the Food & Family section. I’ve received some interesting responses to this piece, including one guy who suggested I change jobs. And not in a way suggesting he has my best interests at heart. I’ll put those together in a “Readers’ Mail” column next time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear God,
This has got to end.
You know what I’m talking about, what with every church service sending makeup flowing off my cheeks down to flesh-colored puddles. Mixed with snot, it has to be conceded.
No matter what my mood and intentions are when I walk into the steepled building, it takes, what, two songs at most to flip the switch?
Of course, I expected pain. Grief, remorse, anxiety, the whole nasty package. I got that memo right away and memorized it on every sleepless night.
But, Dude On High, we’re now at 19 months post hubby’s death and counting. I’m tired of the ache. I’ve seen glimpses of a time that I can smile at funny memories of the Mister. I have entire days I don’t feel my heart contract in sympathy for what David suffered.
And I laugh. A lot. I like laughing, God.
I want more of that, less of this other stuff.
You know to which I refer. When nearly every heart-to-heart conversation turns my eyes pink and messes up my glasses something fierce. And my friends quietly look away because, after all, every word that could be said has been.
I’d like to listen to a country song without biting my lips and I’d love to be able to use the barbecue on the patio without seasoning the chicken with extra salt. Heck, I wish I could just buy school clothes for girls and not think, “Would Dad go for this skirt length?”
And, I suppose you already know, I’ve begun lying. “How are you doing?” is answered with “Better. I’m doing better.” Not so true, is it?
Why? Because you created us to journey forward and that’s what people want to think is happening here.
Heaven (Har! Get it?) knows, it’s what I want to think.
I’m glad I’m not you, looking down on sniveling me, hiding in the bathroom so the kids don’t get that anxious look in their eyes again. Or watching me thrash through another dream.
We both know I have some great days. You’ve given me so much cool stuff, right? I’ve got the children, the friends, the community. The roof over my head and the food in the fridge. And this job, I love this job. It all adds up to outstanding. Who wouldn’t want to be me?
Me. I don’t want to be me. Not like this.
It just seems inconceivable that life is still so painful, the wound so damn raw. Like a defective design or something. Which doesn’t fit with my picture of you, so it must be me.
It’s not like I’m not trying. Shoot, didn’t I just go to a Will Ferrell movie with friends? Did you hear me laughing, nearly gasping for breath a couple of times? We know I appreciate a cute Facebook video and books with a light touch. Am I right?
I invite people over, do some good works. I talk to friends, I whine to my pastor, I loop you in … I’m doing the appropriate stuff. I am eating healthy, for heaven’s sake!
OK, not actually heaven’s sake, but for my own — grief wears me down physically and I do what we can to stay above water.
Nonetheless, Lord, nothing’s working so great. Yes, I know, time heals, blah, blah, blah. Been there, and for long enough. I’ve put in some time, now let’s get going with the healing. And if you tell me I am supposed to go to some kind of support group or counseling, I will come unglued. Just sayin’.
Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not asking for all the pain to be gone. That would just be crazy, and unfair to that great guy you hooked me up with. At this point, I’m not sure I’d even know how to function that way.
Some relief would be nice, though. An easing of sorts. Like a heavenly shot of tequila, enough to slightly numb, but not enough to make me sing karaoke.
So I’m just going to keep putting one foot in front of the other because I have no choice. But, you know, it’s me — asking for a big favor. Which I don’t deserve, at all, but you don’t seem so good at keeping score.
I’ll just be here, waiting for the pain to begin receding, in a way I can tell, Lord. Please. Like today, if you don’t mind.
Hugs,
– Miserable Me
Jeremy DID talk about…you know
Unreal.
Nonetheless, we had a good time with this episode of Almost Your Mother. The podcast includes reading some fan comments, a description of our ghetto studio, some chatter about sending emails after you’ve died and, well, the data Jeremy discovered about normal bathroom habits.
I’m just going to apologize in advance.
Nerfiffic
You recall my post about my Nerf gun?
I just ordered these, and can’t hardly wait until they arrive.
courtesyhumst.com
Here is what’s promised: These foam darts are specially designed for high-flying, high-performance blasting and even whistle through the air as they fly.
That’s all I have to report. At least, until after these babies arrive. Maybe I’ll post a little video after that.
I love my job.
Almost Your Mother
Pod cast No. 5, in which we talk about Jeremy’s fascination with the new version of U.S. Highway 12, my questions about lip piercing and why the heck we can’t get a Target store here.
The Mom
And, fair warning, Jeremy brings up a delicate subject at the end that he wants your feedback on.
The Boy
Send any comments about that TO HIM at almostyourmother@wwub.com.
Here you go! CLICK HERE.
By the way, we recognize having to click somewhere else to listen is frustrating and we’re working on that, honest.
Paul McCartney, can you come to dinner?
My house, my 1947 stucco house, sitting about smack in the middle of little ol’ Milton-Freewater, is undergoing a third wave of Beatlemania.
First came me, with my little girlfriends, in 1970-ish. Standing out on the sidewalk, big crayoned sign calling the group “Sexy, Sexier and Sexiest,” and belting out “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” to passersby.
Ok, here’s the dealio: we had no idea what “sex” meant (kissing? maybe) and we could not sing. We did have mastery over sign making, however, festooning our cardboard with the huge, misshapen daisies of the era.
Three decades or so later, along comes my oldest daughter, tripping into her teen years. She discovered the Beatles in the way some people discover religion or politics. Suddenly, the light has been switched on and anyone who doesn’t see that is totally in the dark. The Beatles, Daughter No. 1 decided, had formed for her benefit alone.
The house swayed to “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” and “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.” There were Beatles shirts and Beatles posters. It was wonderful, frankly. Finally my child could validate my own childhood infatuation.
And it’s come ’round again, full blast. Younger sisters were already painted a bit by the Beatles brush, what with their sister’s influence. Then came last week’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp, sponsored by the Walla Walla Symphony. After a week of rockin’ out, things culminated in a concert at the Farmers Market downtown.
WHOOSH! We slid back into all things Beatles faster than the word “groovy” comes to my lips when discussing bell bottom jeans. The Hagar girls wowed the concert audience (well, me, anyway. I was definitely wowed) by singing 1969′s “Here Comes the Sun.”
Oh my goodness, it was adorable. And hugely touching. My kiddos, up there in front of a couple hundred people, battling nerves back to belt out “Here comes the sun, du du du du, here comes the sun, and I say, it’s alright.”
Their dad would have just burst with pride, if his poor heart hadn’t already given out.
I, the remaining parent, made a fool of myself by standing in front of the stage holding the cell phone in one hand and the camera in the other. And screaming like a Beatles fan.
And who was on the other end of the phone?
Daughter No. 1, of course.
On the way home, we stopped at Hastings to buy Beatles Rock Band so that the joy didn’t have to end. And, indeed, it hasn’t. One song after another, it’s Beatlemania at my house, take three.
So, hey, Paul — or Ringo, for that matter — stop by next time you’re in the area. I guarantee THAT will blow the roof off.
She’s bookish
From the Aug. 3 Home Place column, print edition
Can I just say something?
I’ve felt so lucky for much of my writing career (the entire 15 years of it) that I’ve never been driven to write a book.
I have writer friends who are tortured with the need … a burning drive to produce a book. They eat, sleep and talk “book” with an energy I am just not well-acquainted with.
And, honestly, I’ve been perfectly happy about that. I’ve watched people fall out of the orbit of society and into a black hole of desperation and rewrites, emerging only to head into a full-tilt marketing campaign.
Not everyone realizes that how it used to be for authors is no longer. Not unless you’re waaaay up on the food chain. Publishing houses today, when they deign to accept a work for publication, put the writer in the driver’s seat of selling. “You want to write a book for fame and glory? Great. How many book signings can you line up? You’ll travel on your own dime, of course. And pack a lunch.”
See what I mean? I can wait, maybe forever.
That said — insert clearing of throat and shoe shuffling — it appears there’s going to be a book. By me. Not the soul-sucking work of a novel, but a book of my columns.
Not all of them, of course. “You’ve written enough inches of columns to stretch to the top of the Trump Tower and back down,” our presentation editor told me.
Which actually adds up to several hundred columns, written mostly twice a month for nearly 13 years. Which — and you can breathe a sigh of relief here — we are not going to try to cram into one book.
The question is, then, which columns?
The editor guy hunted down as many of my columns as he could, although some to have drifted off to deep cyberspace. He stuck them in a couple of files and then the real work began.
How to pick the pieces I want in the first volume? And should I choose wrong, there’s not likely to be a second book, so I have to think “market value.”
It’s like asking a mother to choose one baby over another. I know, not every column is book worthy. Some of the earliest ones weren’t even column worthy.
But I do like an awful lot of them. I love the times I wrote about the chaos of a large family, all packed into a huge, purple van and headed for trouble.
Like the time I got pulled over for a speeding ticket and the twins were deciding what to send Mommy in jail before the officer got to my car window. And I still smile over the one about how I decided to go on strike at home for several days. I thought we’d never catch the laundry up. And the times I failed completely, like forgetting to show up at a school award event and had to pay off with a trip to the mall.
I’ve loved talking to you about our various pets, even the moments I made some folks’ blood pressure go up. Remember when we let Annie Mae have kittens? I still try to go incognito to the veterinarian’s office over that one. And you all have made being Cap’n Jack’s mommy a complete joy, cheering him on as you have.
I’ve written how my kids make me crazy and the over-reactions they have provoked. Who else duct tapes their twins’ shirtsleeves together (while their little twinnie arms were inside them) because they would not stop fighting with each other? And then lets everyone else know?
I’ve shared my greatest hopes and deepest grief. I lost my brother and then I lost half of my life and I wrote about it … because you let me. In a big way.
No, I can’t choose columns for this book. But you can. Help me out here. If you have a favorite column, or one that made you see red, let me know at sheilahagar@wwub.com. Maybe it’s one your mom called and told you to read, or you snipped out and magnetized to the fridge. Or the column that you could keep still about no longer, like when a “fan” called me “Hitler-like,” and said he felt sorry for my husband. I once had a guy call up (did I already tell you this?) and tell me he thought everything I wrote was made up. “Sir,” I said, “I have six kids. I don’t have to make up anything.” I guess the caller believed me because he then launched into a story that lasted half an hour.
And that’s the way this job goes. I say something in a column, someone says something back, and pretty soon good ideas for more columns are practically begging to be plucked out of the air.
OK, I’ve blathered on. I’m maybe a little bit excited about this, truth be told. I sort of see myself at book-signings, talking with you and trading stories. On my own dime, naturally.
