will be missed

The fact that we are moving is quickly shifting from an abstract, scary future event into a hard and present tense fact. We have movers coming to quote. We have lease papers to sign. We are selling some of our Giant American furniture that fits our Giant Glasgow flat but will be ridiculous in our tiny Cambridge terraced house.  I have change of address things to fill out for the mail redirection. We have a new nursery for Lewis all signed up. I have started good-byeing, knowing that in 2 short weeks or so, we won't (gulp) LIVE here.

It always helps me (as any of you regular readers know) to list it out. Properly annotate just the very things I am processing. It helps me move through the treacle.

So my beginnings of my endings here. I am sad about leaving Scotland. Full-Stop. It has been a most welcoming country. It likes Americans. It  is not pretentious or snobby or competitive. It has a live and let live feeling. And a sense of culture and collective spirit that is enviable. People are friendly. I have friends.  I have people. It is home. And I hope in some ways it always will be. 

In no apparent order, things I will miss:

• Hearing random bagpipes playing
• Kelvingrove Park- so close, so big, our big garden 2 blocks away
• An Clatchan cafe's easy, perfect park location, caramelised onion sausage sandwiches and open toy policy, a respite for the weary parent with great cake and an outside seat to watch the playpark while you sip
• Biblos chocolate cake, reliable lattes and owner gossip
• The 44 bus
• Grassroots Charlie, always ready with a fun chit chat and a welcome for a local shopper
• Kilts
• Seeing wedding parties walk down the street to the civil ceremonies place
• Lupe Pintos access to all things Tex Mex and oddly necessary American things
• Our large, tall rooms to roam all on one floor
• Having a baby in the familiar if imperfect princess royal hospital
• Dear pal Rhona, real talk and real laughing with kindred spirit, movie nights at GFT
• Acorn Nursery's sincere and relentless staff friendliness
• My sunny yellow kitchen so lovingly upgraded by Mark
• Scotland's space, absence of crowds and heat
• My dear fellow mothering pals to commiserate and kvetch with, learn from, and watch our littles grow big together. I am sad I won't be here for more of the journey together. 
• My supportive and earthy acupuncturist Maureen, seeing me through 2 natural pregnancies
• My first home purchase of lovely historic flat with 16 foot ceilings and more rooms than we knew what to do with
• The place where I became a mother, we became a family and Lewis had his first home
• The toy room, TV room. big bed, tiny bed
• Friendly, open non judgemental Scottish people
• Kick ass curries
• Trips to the elephant museum/transport museum
• Park Circus views
• Glaswegian blether 

And when it makes me too sad, I try to think of the things we are looking forward to in our relocation to Cambridge.

• more chances of actual sunshine
• flat biking 
• a truly international community
• a (more) non smoking & healthy environment
• English country pubs
• being a 1.5 hour drive away from grandparents
• no more climbing 50+ stairs to our flat with a baby, a toddler, a pregnant belly or shopping
• the Cambridge market
• seeing old Cambridge buddies
• another step closer to home
• train ride easy access to London
• coming full circle to where I started my UK adventure and Mark & I stopped just dating and started our lives together
• posh accents
• seeing Mark Love his job again
• my baby girl being born English

 So as I process and we move forward at a speed I feel a bit dizzy from, it rips the band aid off. It would always be hard to leave. I would always be sad. Maybe fast is better. Maybe, like Lewis like to say, we are sailing to the sunshine next.  And that can only be good news.

our quiet hero, now rest

My Dad died a few weeks ago on 27 July.  He had a rough few years with his health, battling (and winning) lung cancer and heart surgery, with long, hard won recoveries. He recovered enough to enjoy a bit of this summer, taking a coach trip with the Korean War veterans to Washington DC, seeing a few local baseball games with my Mom, riding his bike, eating McDonald's ice cream cones.  But it was an infection from his surgery that got him in the end. He died in no pain, with no mental anguish, with my Mom, 2 of my siblings and the nicest nurse with him.

I am fresh back from my visit home to say my final good bye to my Dad at his funeral. It was a hard, loving, emotional visit that had flashes of normalcy and many sweet laughs as Lewis entertained and provided a tender elixir to the heaviness of the days.

Along with my Uncle Dave and a fellow Gray Beard, Korean War veteran friend, all of my brothers and sisters and I spoke at my Dad's service. The service was fitting to the man, simple, lovely with a military respect of the 21 gun salute and buried in his favourite green fleece.  It was an honour to speak of my Dad and I share my words here.

We have heard so many themes today about Frank, solid, loyal, kind, dependable and fun.

Until now I haven’t realised what a quiet force my Dad was. He was often in the background but he was always there ... steady, strong, available.

In my job, I often ask people what they want people to remember them for.

I can’t help but think Dad would be so happy and proud to hear that his small and large kindnesses, his friendly and warm company and his steadfast presence made us all of feel loved, safe and taken care of.

And I don’t think I ever got to thank him for that.

So now I take my moment to say thank you, Dad.

• -     For being the man that drove me to endless tumbling and random events all my childhood, with Sports Talk on the radio
• -      For being the best looking Dad in the pack
• -      For always smelling like clean aftershave
• -      Magically changing all my crumpled singles and big pile of change waitress tips into nice, clean 20s
• -      For wearing his kid’s logo wear with pride, or at least making us feel like he was proud.
• -      Playing with my fingers in church when I was little
• -      For being the man who documented things like the date we got a new toilet seat
• -      And taking pictures of things on TV
• -      For showing me that being a dad often means eating burnt toast and the black jellybeans
• -      Having the perfect architectural penmanship
• -      Hiding $50 bills at my house, for me to find later
• -      With limited success, trying to teaching me and Gary to bowl – shake hands with the ball
• -      Showing me that arguing bitterly with you spouse over Christmas tree lights is an annual event that your marriage will survive
• -      For forever cementing that lunchboxes should always smell of bananas
• -      For walking me down the aisle at my wedding
• -      For making me feel safe
• -      Driving us home from the lake and feeling so utterly secure that we always fell asleep that 45 minutes
• -      Insisting on filling up gas in  your car
• -      Hearing Mom and Dad’s low murmur voices in bed talking at night
• -      Warming up the car and scraping off the snow for you on cold mornings
• -      For being there when Lewis was born … 16 days late, and being the first person to call Lewis “sweetheart”
• -      For the example of hard work  -- like the rings he made for all his kids and for Mom, taking silver dollar coins and painstakingly pounding them into simple, string silver rings… much like Dad himself.

I know Dad was always so happy when he and Mom were on their annual vacations in Florida. He would go for long solo walks on the beach, in search of sharks teeth, sand dollars, and maybe a bit of chat with other folks he’d meet along the way, collecting scraps of information to report back to Mom.  He was tanned, happy, relaxed and utterly in his element...

I like to imagine he is on one of those adventures now – enjoying the view, collecting unexpected treasures, and forever basking in a beautiful sunny day.


So now we are all back at our respective homes. Back in the business of living. People have been heart-breakingly kind. Death does that. It shows our underbelly and our collective circles of friends and even acquaintances rally to hold our net. Makes us feel very very human and very alive in our pain. Now we are all sorting this through and feeling the soft spot where my Dad lived in each of us. Feeling lucky to have had him in a way we never acknowledged before.  Feeling just that much closer to each other than before. Feeling what's missing and holding on to what's not.

Our quiet hero, my Mom's rock ... now rest. 

good bye dear friend

Dear bed,

I think you may as well know. We are getting a new bed tomorrow. I am truly excited. A Superking (which is a normal King in the US). It will be HUGE. I look forward to the acres of space for all the sleeping beings in there. I look forward to a fresh mattress. New sheets. Yum.

And yet, yes, I am sad.  I have always thought one of the most depressing sights was seeing a discarded mattress on the side of the road, awaiting the garbage men. No doubt that mattress was the refuge of many wonderful nights of sleep, love, tears, conception, naps, cuddles, piles of clothes, and comfort. Seems so wrong to discard it all naked and stained to the world's cruel view.

We got you when you were going to be just "Mark's bed" in 2002 in Washington DC. I remember helping pick you out in the shop, feeling very grown up and proud that I was being consulted for such an intimate  purchase. I was the girlfriend and it gave me peace to think I could contribute my opinion on such a long term item. I remember thinking you were worth every penny for your pillow-top dreaminess.

Who knew that 9 years later I would be saying good bye to you after making you my own.

I have always loved you and felt you were a safe and welcoming place I could hide, dream, escape and unwind. You've earned your retirement. You sag. You've been subjected to all manner of new stains and indignities thanks to a new family member. And, bed, don't take this the wrong way, but you may have bugs.

We had some good times. You've seen us through 5 moves in 3 countries and never let us down.

Thank you for being such a good resting place. And don't worry, the nice men who are bringing your replacement to us will wrap you up and take you to your final sleep.

Night night.

Chapter ending

Three days at work left and I feel crabby. Like I shoulda maybe gone 3 weeks ago. Six weeks of notice is too long. By the time you get to the last week, your head is already gone, but your body is at the office … making it very confusing for your spirit.

But I feel this is 10000% the right time for me to exit. Change is afoot. And I am not, should not, be a part of the next iteration. In the 18 months I have tried to be myself, do my work, be open and honest and treat people with respect and good will. And that I think I have accomplished. It also underscores what is important to me and what I can’t be bothered with. Truth is, I am more hungry now for a different kind of work than I have been in a long time. The fire is officially lit for my next chapter.

My best takeaway from my job is that I’ve met really great humans and they have helped me fully assimilate into life in Scotland. I got to know the flavour and the texture of the people and culture in a way I never would have just sitting in my flat. I've been part of it. I so appreciate the characters and the open friendliness and acceptance my team has offered me.

I will truly miss working with people I like, respect and enjoy being around. The daily coffee mornings, the ‘man tin’, my continual visits to the web team, the lunch field trips and Sodexo cuisine. But also working with people who Get It. They are smart and know what and who they are about and how to do their jobs. It is heartening to be around. I also see what they could be if they believed in themselves more. But they know how to have a laugh and also do their job -- which is a refreshing change from some of my corporate experience.

I also know I won’t miss early mornings and picking out an outfit. Too many available snacks. Meetings. Quiet office politics. Time away from what I feel called to do. Giving me excuses to play small. And not coaching more.

My hope is that I will keep the people. Keep the friends. Keep the connection.

But in my heart of hearts I know.

My work here is done.

saying goodbye to Olof

What a exhausting 32 hours.

To Amsterdam and Leiden and back and as many as 10 different modes of transport once it was said and done. But mostly in saying good bye to Olof.

I'd never been to a cremation ceremony before, especially one in Dutch. Some parts were translated, but most of it was not, which actually made it easier. What we did understand were the Queen songs Olof had chosen for this day, Olof's favourite blue and purple flowers surrounding his casket, and the enlarged framed photo of Olof is his backwards baseball cap and camera strewn around his neck, grinning sweetly.

These things made it real. And ghastly.

It is hard to see someone young die. It is even harder to see the closest people caught in mid-stream who will need to continue on with the giant hole of loss.

Also hard to see my Mark lose someone who shared a huge amount of joint memories with him and who he thought was a given and a staple in his future. Boys don't make lots of new friends. They hang on to the old ones forever.

It was sad. And good. And important. And lovely to meet the people in his and Evelyn's life.

And we hope to remember Olof each year at this time.

Toast to him with his classically overly sugared tea. Eat meat on a stick. Or just take some time to think of him.

It is sad. And good. And important.