Filed under: America, Family, Friends, Home, Indianapolis, Seattle, travel | Tags: Bozeman Deaconess Hospital, cross-country move, Pancreatitis, Seattle
“If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.” – Woody Allen
It’s been over a month now, since we picked up our life and moved out of Indianapolis. We crossed 2300 miles of open road, and passed through nine states. It was a real adventure, and one that continues! But more on that in a moment.
I’m happy to report that the kids were real troopers. There was the occasional whining around nap time, but mostly they adapted surprisingly well. Even Georgie, the dog, acclimated herself to the cramped quarters of the minivan. And the minivan herself ran remarkably well (now at 14 years old, 192,000 miles and counting!), the only mishap being a rock chip in the windshield 30 minutes outside our final destination! So we drove, both Frank and I, through wind and rain, mountain passes, flat prairies, through forests and over rivers. We listened to all kinds of music and books on CD, and we had silent times, too. We visited friends and family and we made lots and lots of memories. There were tears of joy, and of pain.
I’d like to tell you about every moment, but I must confess, the two parts of our trip that stand out the most are The Disaster and The Unfinished Sequel. Continue reading
Filed under: America, Family, Home, Indianapolis, Seattle, travel | Tags: Anderson University, Immigration, Indiana, Indianapolis, Ireland, Seattle
It’s been just over a year since we moved, immigrated, back to the USA from Ireland.
Evelyn is going on 5 years old. She’s started forgetting things, like how her Nana’s house looked, or what her little cousins’ names are, or who our doting neighbours there were. She remembers a lot of funny little things, but not always the details and persons we so wish she’d recall. Shea, on the other hand, was just 6 months old when we moved, now 19 months. He remembers nothing from our former life, and only knows his Irish family from waving and blowing kisses to them over Skype.
Moving so far away from the people and places you love has to be done for a lot of really solid reasons. And, once you’re gone, and homesick, and looking back and questioning why, somewhere along the lines you better feel, in your heart, that it was worth it. The sacrifices led to something better.
My earliest personal memories come from the summer I was 3 years old. I remember that summer in very vivid bits and pieces because it was my family’s first big road trip, from Bozeman to Seattle. My parents packed up our little black Buick Skylark, buckled my sisters and me into the back seat and headed off, nearly 700 miles West. I remember being afraid of everything on that trip – The Space Needle, the ferries, the shower in our motel! I remember playing with my cousin, Paul, and I remember my Uncle Mac dropping an ear of buttered corn on the cob onto the floor and all of us laughing. I remember my mother getting a bee stuck up her pants. I remember posing for a lot of boring pictures. I remember the Sees candy shop with its little playhouse. I remember my dad prying starfish off the rocks in a tidal pool and leaving them in the trunk of our car until the smell became unbearable. I remember rain forests, and my hooded rain coat and miniature villages on display in Victoria, BC. And, perhaps the strongest sensory memory of all is simply the one of sitting in that back seat, in traffic, the rain drops racing each other down the widows, and listening to a Simon & Garfunkel tape over and over again. “I’m sittin’ in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination, Mmmmhmm…”
I could be anywhere in the world and hear the first few bars of that song and be instantly transported back to Seattle, and my 3 year-old self.
I don’t know if it’s irony, or destiny, but by this time next weekend, our little family will be homeward bound to Seattle. Yes – you read it right – after just a year, we’re packing up our things, selling what we can, saying goodbye to friends, and moving again. And adding another 2300 miles to the distance already between us and Ireland. Continue reading
Filed under: America, Family, Food and Drink, Friends, Indianapolis, Ireland in General
It’s just after 9 a.m. and I’m finally moving. The kids seem to get me up too early these days, but I won’t let the couch call my name again today (if I can help it). I pour my first cup of coffee – my favorite – and watch it swirl and steam up inside the cup, like futures in a crystal ball. I love watching that first cup of coffee. I add a dash of cream and watch it follow a counterclockwise swirling pattern.
Evelyn is sitting on the couch in her princess nightgown, swinging her legs and dress-up shoed feet in time to a song she’s making up. Shea is napping and Frank is still asleep.
It’s a beautiful, sunny morning, cool and clear but humid in nearly tropical proportions. At least to someone who spent the majority of the last 6 years in Ireland. I’m so thankful that this has been one of the coolest Julys on record in Indianapolis. It’s still been a hot one for us, but not unbearable, particularly considering we still don’t have the air conditioning fixed on our minivan. And it’s nice not to have to keep the air on all the time in house, too. I wish I could keep the windows in the house wide open all the time, really, but that’s unfortunately not an option in our neighbourhood.
I’m making strawberry cherry rhubarb jam. A strange combination, maybe, but it’s made out of the over-ripe stuff I have on hand, like all the best jams are (of course). I’m pitting the cherries with my fingers and staining my cuticles. Ah well.
Cherries get kind of a bad rap. They’re kind of the Regina Spektor of the fruit world – lovely and worthy but a bit of work to get into. Like drinking from a cup and saucer instead of a mug. Like starting your summer plants early from seed instead of buying 2 inch plants from a store. It’s a nice idea, but no one has time for that. I think it’s sad that people avoid cherries for “easier” fruits like apples or bananas or strawberries. When I was growing up in Montana, Flathead Cherries were anticipated all Spring. Rainier Cherries, too.
I remember the Friday fruit stall in Drogheda would often have gorgeous piles of ripe, red cherries that didn’t attract any attention beyond small swarms of yellow jackets. The proprietors would walk up and down in front of their stall with samples of the beautiful fruit, and samples of fresh Spanish peaches and nectarines, too, but couldn’t coax the aul’ Irish ladies to try any. “I don’t like the stones,” they’d complain. “I don’t like the fuzz.” So I bought some cherries, most weeks, and some peaches and nectarines, too, even though I was usually the only one in our house to eat them. Continue reading
Lately, I feel like people are thinking, “Oh Geez, here come those complaining Kellys again. Never happy.”
If you follow our Facebook or Twitter accounts, read my husband’s or my blogs or keep up with us in any way, you will have seen a lot of up and down commentary from us over the last good while. Job frustrations, money woes, loneliness, homesickness for Ireland, challenges with the kids, and certainly a lot of anxiety since our home intrusion back in April. But mostly, I think, our admitted dissatisfaction comes from a passionate and unquenchable desire to be something more. To hold on to our dreams, and work hard for them. To leave a mark. To mean something. And the knowledge that we are not “getting anywhere” at the moment.
I’ve found myself asking a lot of questions lately. Does everyone dream big, but only a few achieve? Why do some people never “get there?” Is it a matter of work, or belief, or opportunity, or luck? If God puts talents and desires into each of us, shouldn’t we fight for them, and try our best to see them through?
I know, when looking at famous examples throughout history, a lot of dreamers had to sacrifice things like family, friends, even health and certainly money, in order to follow their hearts. Some of these people were selfishly obsessed with money or fame. Some were simply driven by belief in what they had to offer. I’d like to think that Frank and I are part of the latter group. We both, and together, have deep, sincere, heart-felt, nearly primal dreams we dream every day. They don’t really involve celebrity, power, or fortune, but rather a better life for our kids and a greater feeling of satisfaction and some pride in what we’ve been able to give back to the world.
We are, both of us, story tellers.
Yet, it seems unpopular in our world today for anyone past the age of, oh, say 25, to dream. That’s kid stuff. If you haven’t taken a risk or made your mark by then, you need to give it up. It’s selfish and foolhardy to pursue personal ambitions past 30, much less 40! And when you have kids? Don’t even think about it.
It’s like we’re perpetuating a myth, generation after generation of us, raising children with hope and encouragement, only to squelch our own ambitions before they can fly if they don’t succeed within an accepted time frame. We watch our parents and grandparents give up, and we dream for a little while, and then give up, too. We tell our kids to dream, and then watch them close the door when their own little ones come. And unless you’re extremely driven, or lucky, or cut-throat about it, you won’t break free.
I find this ideology incredibly frustrating. And I feel like I can’t sincerely tell my daughter and son to aim high and reach for the stars if I won’t allow myself, or Frank, to do it as well. Continue reading
Filed under: America, Arts and Crafts, Food and Drink, Friends, Indianapolis | Tags: Bozeman, friends, Indianapolis, walnut coffee cake
“Old friends, old friends, sat on their park bench like bookends.”
When I was in college, my summer job was working as an interpreter at a living history farm in Bozeman, Montana. Looking back, I could not imagine myself landing a better job than this – dressing up as a circa 1900 woman, cooking on a wood stove, talking to visitors, learning how to crochet and embroider and sew on a treadle machine, getting to try a huge array of interesting vegetables from an ever-expanding heritage garden, and, best of all, learning from the bottomless well of knowledge that was our volunteer base. We had everything from blacksmiths to gardeners, spinners and weavers and musicians, all historians of sorts, all (or mostly) lovely, wise, fascinating people.
My favourite days on the farm were usually Saturdays, particularly early in the season when it was still a bit chilly. If it was raining out, the house would be dark (no electricity!) and visitors rarely came down the wooden sidewalk. Those were the days when I would build up the fire in the wood stove, make a big pot of cowboy coffee, and sit around the table with my boss, Dave Kinsey, and one of my very favourite ladies, Karen James. I was only a teenager, but they never, ever made me feel small. We would talk about the farm, Western history, our town, our lives, local politics, and so on. And, usually, Karen would bring a truly magnificent coffee cake. We’d sit there, cozy and pleasant, eating piece after piece of this sinfully buttery cake covered in sugary walnuts and cinnamon. We’d drink gallons of coffee, ignoring the grounds sinking to the bottom of our cups as we topped up and poked the fire. I know it sounds funny and a little naughty that I loved those peaceful mornings when nobody would come around the house looking for a tour! But it was those sweet friendships we were forging that I found myself looking forward to all week, and missing when the job was over for another summer.
A few years later, when I was working for Heartland Truly Moving Pictures in downtown Indianapolis, I formed similar bonds with many of the staff. I still remember when Kevin Swiontek would poke his head in my office nearly every morning with the same single worded question: “Coffee?” He’d usually accompany the query with a gesture of drinking a cup. I would smile, grab my purse, and join the group that also usually included my friends Claire Brosman and Kristi Gross as we walked across the street to Nordstrom’s coffee shop. Somehow, we all needed those few moments of camaraderie at the start of our long days, just a short break to get a breath of fresh air and ask how everyone’s weekends went. It brought us closer as friends and co-workers. And if it was a good day, or perhaps a particularly bad day, I would treat myself to Nordstrom’s “old-fashioned” coffee cake, which was the closest confection I’ve ever had, before or since, to Karen’s wonderful cake. This one was probably factory made, but still buttery, rich, and sweet with nuts and cinnamon. So the same comfortable association lived on, even in another time and another city. Continue reading
My head is throbbing.
I am jumpy, skitterish, probably unnecessarily anxious.
Today was a long day – getting Evelyn off to pre-school at 8:30, coming home to catch up on dishes and try to work on an article, then work at Starbucks 12:30, taking Frank to work at 5:30, then getting a babysitter and going to do a film review this evening. I missed dinner and didn’t have much of a lunch. I felt almost jovial coming out of the movie, stopped in to Trader Joe’s and headed for the highway home.
At the stoplight just before I69/465, I clicked on the little indicator that says how much gas I have left – oops, only 7 miles until empty. And I was in the wrong lane to turn around. So I got on the highway, nervous and scanning the exits for a gas station. This wouldn’t do – I had to get off at Lawrence. I wasn’t going to end up stranded at night on the highway with one headlight and no one to rescue me. I drove down a street that, while well lit, was not where I wanted to be. I had to pull in to the first gas station – really the only gas station – I could see, and as I did, I noticed there were police cars parked askew in the lot and a couple officers having heated debate with some young girls. I tried to stay nonchalant, but a voice came over the speaker and told me I’d have to pre-pay inside. So I locked the car and walked through the police cars and in to the station. I waited in line, listening to the shouts and curses of people in the store. I could feel my face flushing, a rushing sound filling my ears and a sort of desperation as I willed the line to move faster. I paid a polite cashier and quickened my steps back to the car, where I put $20 worth in my tank. A well-dressed man on the other side of the pump filled his car and shook his head at me, saying, “I’m just dreading this summer, when those crime rates are gonna climb even higher. A few months from now, I don’t even want to see. It’s already started. These young kids, they just don’t care, don’t even care about living.” I nodded soberly back at him.
I finished pumping my gas, wished the man good night and safe home, and got back in my car, locked the doors and got back on the highway. But the more I thought about it, the more I began to feel the chills of reality. He was right, and I knew it. Everyone around here knows it. This summer is going to be bad, unless something changes. Continue reading