Wildfires

All of these wildfires burning in Canada and California are affecting the air quality where I'm working in Minnesota. When the wind is blowing from the north, the smoke from the Canadian fires are blowing into this area. You can't smell wood fire, but the haze is thick and air quality is considered dangerous for individuals at risk. Overall it isn't bothering me, but the sunsets stirred up some feelings I haven't felt in twenty years.

Back in the late 90s, Florida was on fire. I was newly on my own, having flown the nest with a great quickness and relief, happy to be out and free from parental rules and regulations even though the responsibilities were heavy. A friend of mine was also recently fledged himself and feeling the financial pinch worse than myself so he decided to sell his very rare bass guitar in the hopes of making ends meet and float his finances for a few more months. I graciously offered to drive him to Orlando where he could get the most money for his bass and even watched the news to be sure our driving route was open and safe. After finding out that we were clear to go, we headed out only to learn that his rare guitar was an equally rare knock off of such high quality, it almost slipped detection.

Heartbroken, we piled into my '65 VW Beetle and headed back to the beach. I'd tuned in to the local rock station as we were driving but instead of music, we were listening to live reporting of the suddenly rekindled fire activity and road closures. As if to rub salt in our already festering wounds, our route home was closed due to fire hazards. I pulled over into a parking lot and sat there in the blazing Florida sun trying to parse out an alternate route using my second hand, well-lined Rand McNally map. We listened closely to the radio announcements and added more marks to the map to show what roads were closed before finally beginning to plan our return trip. We opted to go through the town of Christmas and hopefully skirt the worst of the flames before the fires got close to the highway.

We were getting close to Christmas on Hwy 50 when the air went from hazy to something that was indescribable. It was so thick I could barely see through it and even though I had my headlights on for safety, the light just reflected back at me from the smoke. We'd rolled up my windows because we were coughing and choking on the air blowing in, but the roads were still open so I decided to push through. I drove white knuckled as we sweltered and choked in my car. I ended up taking my bandanna off my head and wrapped it around my face to try and cut the stink and make the air easier to breathe but it did little more than go soggy from my sweat and make me even more uncomfortable.

The haze thickened to the point that it was almost as dark as full night and then it suddenly took on a reddish tinge. At some point, the wind had switched and we were now driving through an area that was actively on fire. Fueled by teenage stupidity and quavering bravado I drove on past trees that were burning, just trying to push through as fast as my little Beetle would go. It was horrifying to see that living line of destruction hedging closer to the road as we hurtled past but I held it together and kept repeating that we'd be okay. Then the fire started to cross the road ahead of us; we could see chunks of burning debris blow over and across the road to settle on the other side of trees and ignite. We were all terrified at this point. I was crying, my friend was holding his head in his hands and apologizing over and over to me for getting me into this situation, and the other friend in the backseat, the rabid atheist, was chanting a Hail Mary over and over again.

Finally, a fire ranger sped past us on the opposite side of the road, lights flashing and siren blaring, but oddly muted by the smoke surrounding us. His tail lights winked out almost as soon as he passed but it gave me a slight burst of confidence that the way ahead must be clear. Soon there was an almost steady stream of fire fighters in varying types of vehicles headed in the direction we'd just come from. Some of them honked and waved encouragement to us while others just stared in slack-jawed amazement and I'm sure they made plenty of comments about idiot teenagers to lighten their mood before the battle began.

Ahead, I could just make out blue flashing lights through the hazy smoke and began to let off the throttle as we closed in on a police checkpoint. The road was barricaded to prevent anyone from driving through into the fire zone and we had to wait for the wide-eyed and VERY ANGRY local deputy to move one and allow us to pass through. We were then ordered to get OUT OF THAT GOD DAMNED CAR RIGHT NOW and obediently filed out, shaken but so relieved. We received an ass chewing to end all ass chewing from the officers and accepted it with heads hanging and tears streaming down all three of our faces. Once the officers were relieved of their anger fueled by fear we explained that we'd listened to the radio reports and had plotted our route to avoid the areas affected by the fires. The deputies did ease up on us after that because it was very obvious we were just a pack of very scared kids who had just gone through a terrifying experience and it turned out that we were very much not at fault because the route had been clear until the wind shifted unpredictably and rekindled a fire that had been considered under control.

I dropped my friends off and headed back to my apartment, a little studio above a garage in a suburban neighborhood. As I pulled into my designated parking spot, the home owner came out of his garage to chat. I remained close-lipped about my recent experience since he knew my parents and would have called them right away to report on my activities. He told me I needed to go watch the news and keep an eye on the fire activity across the river. Even though he was almost certain it wouldn't jump and I didn't need to worry, he'd knock on my door if we got an evacuation notice to make sure I got out of there safely. I headed up the stairs, weary and exhausted, but instead of showering I climbed out of my dormer window and onto the roof to see if the fire was visible yet. Sure enough, there it was, far off in the distance and marching towards the river with great speed. I sat there, mesmerized by the flames as they danced, twisting up into the air to a height of what seemed like hundreds, if not thousands of feet.

I sat there the rest of the afternoon watching the fire come closer and closer to the river and as it came closer, the ribbons and gouts of flames started to blow across the river, only to fall in and sputter as they hit the water. Then it happened. A particularly large ball of flaming debris blew across the river and landed in the marsh grass of North Merritt Island followed by another and yet another. I went inside, packed a bag, and went down to knock on the home owner's door. I let him know that the fire had made it across the river and I was heading to stay with some friends at the beach.

Thankfully the fires on the island, though they burned a large amount of grassland, didn't reach my place. I went home the next day and everything was safe and sound, though the air was thick and hazy for weeks as the fires raged across the region for almost two solid months. Sunsets were particularly eerie during that time. There was none of the usual technicolor beauty, just a hazy red ball lowering in the sky. It's what the the sunsets have been like here in Minnesota, twenty years and almost two thousand miles from my terrifying experience of my youth. Putting those two pieces together has lifted that unsettling feeling from my heart and I can't help but hope that there isn't another carload of kids out there getting a hard life lesson as these modern wild fires burn.

Why I Hate Mother's Day

Uh oh, I haven't posted in forever and I barge in with an emotive blog post, but here it goes.

I've always hated Mother's Day.  Growing up without a mother, I'd have to make crafts for my dad at church or school instead of my mom which always caused teasing or questions.  The worst of all was "where's your mom?" because back in the 80s, moms still raised their kids.  It was unheard of to have a single father back then. I had several friends with single moms, but none with a single father.  Of course, when I was questioned, I would answer with a childish blunt honesty "she killed herself."  Aaaaaand...cue awkwardness.

Mother's Day was always a reminder of what I didn't have and never would have again.

When I got pregnant I kind of admit I got hopeful about Mother's Day since yay! I'm a mom now, it can be a good day again, but it wasn't.  He Who Shall Not Be Named never really did much for me on Mother's Day because he either was away or just didn't care.  There were some half-hearted efforts lest he infuriates the woman he was with, but sincerity was lacking and it wasn't quite right.

It just fell flat and was a disappointment.

I often wondered to myself if I'd built the holiday up too much in my mind, but many of my friends would post images on various message boards, blogs, and groups of their breakfast in bed, gifts of drawings and flowers, and time off from the day in and day out drudgery of motherhood.  I didn't get that.  I'd get flowers, or I'd get take out for breakfast, and I was grateful for what I got, but it was never a day of being treasured or feeling truly valued.

So boo to Mother's Day.  Hooray for wine! (but not whine because I love my kids and my life is pretty darn good too).

Because it's Mother's Day, I treated myself to my favorite breakfast, carrot pancakes with cream cheese spread.  It's a bit of work, but worth it.

Value - Or, Just Say NO!

I read an opinion piece today about artists and their value.  While it specifies those in the artistic industry such as photography and videography, I find this applies to both my crafting and my work.

I am frequently asked to knit, sew, craft, etc...items for friends when they see what I've made.  Some offer payment, others offer to buy the materials, and still others just expect me to do it for the fun of doing it and offer it as a gift.

Before I began to sew and knit seriously, I often thought that hand knit items were ridiculously overpriced; that was until I sat down and knit my first sweater and sewed my first dress.  Then I realized that people offer handcrafted items for sale are woefully underpaid.  My tastes run towards more costly items like fine quality yarns and stylish fabrics so when someone sees something I've made, they don't realize that my handmade item cost maybe twice what it would have cost if I'd picked it up in a store.  After factoring time to craft the item, well...it's a hobby as I tell people, and I don't make things for fun and profit, just for fun.  I do knit and sew for others as gifts, but when I have requests, more often than not I will say no.

That's hard for me, saying no.  I was raised to give of myself and then give more, but I rarely have time for the crafts that I love so much and having to do them for other people makes it onerous.  I actually will put off crafting an item for other people's requests until the very last minute because I am just not feeling it.

As for work, that's a very hard one for me.  I have learned to accept rejection of my rates, hard as it may be, and to refuse to offer services when potential clients attempt to haggle me down.  I've done favors before, but I've often found that the favors are seldom returned and rarely appreciated.  They also tend to lead to multiple requests for favors.

The other day I had such a request.  I would normally charge about $280 plus, given the condition of the home, a $40 wear and tear fee on my equipment and sanity.  I was offered less than half my standard rate, and as much as I wanted to help a person I like, I politely declined their offer and told them my rate is my rate, friendship aside.

Of course, there's a part of me inside that thinks that extra money would be nice, I could do something nice with the kids or invest in some hiking equipment for my big fall trip, but I have to value myself and say no when someone attempts to undervalue me.  I offer a service, and I expect to be paid for that service in a profitable manner. While I truly enjoy what I do, it's very hard and dirty work, and I do a damned good job.  That's why I charge the rates I charge, you get what you pay for and you get a lot from me when I work for you.  I've had housekeepers in the past, and I've come  home from a long, hard day only to clean up the mess the housekeeper has left behind: puddles of cleaning fluid, smears on my windows and doors, and worst of all...Pledge furniture polish buildup on my bathroom tiles.

I am not a charity, I'm not looking for an "opportunity" to get my business name out there.  Out of all the favors I've done for others, I've never seen a referral or money that I was promised in the future.  It was an opportunity for the person whom I helped to save money and get a great deal, and it has always left me feeling angry, bitter, and used.

So I don't do favors.  I reject low ball offers of payment.  I accept rejections from potential clients who feel my prices are too high.  That's life and I will not undervalue myself.

Motherless Mothers

I lost my mother at a young age, and growing up my father did his best to fill in the gaps with amazing women in my life.  My fondest memories of a mother-figure are of my old babysitter who would play with me.  I have vague recollections of my mom playing with me, but my sitter was just awesome.  She would get down on the floor with me to play Barbie and My Little Pony and even sewed clothes for my toys.  Another woman my father dated was very much a Susie Homemaker who enjoyed sewing dresses for me and baking all sorts of delicious treats.

The woman my father wound up marrying is the polar opposite of all the mother figures he'd placed in my life to nurture me.  She's an amazing woman, intelligent, kind, and loving, but we didn't bond until I had my second child and was a grown woman.

Since I never truly had a mother-daughter bond, or really experienced (to my memory) how a mother bonds with her children, I've always felt as if I'm missing something or not doing enough for my kids.  Quite often, I feel like I'm just going through the motions of motherhood and doing what's expected because it's what I think moms should do, or because it's what the mother I wanted would have been like.  I'm not sure.  It frequently feels fake or hollow, and it's hard to put my finger on exactly why.

I strive to be the Perfect Mother in all ways, but I so very often fall short, and it kills me inside.  I want to be Mother Bear from the Little Bear books, kind and gently loving while making all sorts of yummy goodness to share with my offspring, but the reality is me yelling at the kids, pushing them away, and hiding from them when I get overwhelmed by all the expectations I hold myself up to.

Several times I've attempted to find online support networks for mothers without mothers, but I've found that the groups are either older women who lost their mothers as adults or people who just want to vent and find support dealing with their grief.  I've been unable to find women who can help me relate to being a mother without any motherly guidance in her life.  So I wing it, and I go it alone.

While I do mourn the loss of my mother and feel the emptiness inside from time to time, I feel that it happened so long ago that it really doesn't impact me anymore.  Save for the anniversary of her death, I don't feel much sadness or sorrow, and it really is just a fact of life.  I don't have a mother and I don't remember much of the mother I had.

I just fear that I'm not a good mom.  People tell me I'm an awesome mother but inside I'm thinking that I've completely pulled the wool over their eyes because I feel like I'm nothing more than a farce.  I have no example to hold myself up to in my mind and not having someone in my life to model leaves me feeling a bit lost.  I need a mentor, a person to compare myself to, but I lack that inner guidance because I never had the experience of a real mother in my life.

So I keep muddling, and I keep wondering.  I can only hope that my children turn out okay and I don't cause their therapy bills to be through the roof in their adulthood.