Finally! Nuk got his ride in my new truck. He’s a groovy bro-in-law. Of course BT/Mercedes—my oldest sister—and Suzanne rode with us as we snaked through the roads of Pleasant View and North Ogden. We even made a pilgrimage past the original Floyd’s house. (In case you don’t remember, Floyd was the most uninteresting professor I had during my time as a student at Weber State.) Before our ride, we had a lively chat and laugh fest. Nuk and BT/Mercedes are two of the best and funniest people I have ever known. I lived with them a couple of times when I was going to WSU, and I consider the time I spent in their house as absolute fun. I always felt safe and loved there, at a time in my life when I didn’t even know I most needed to feel safe and loved. You know—like anyone who is 17, I was young enough to know all the answers. I didn’t need anything or anybody: I was invincible. Nuk and BT/Mercedes loved me anyway. Now that I’m old enough to know none of the answers, they still love me. I am a lucky littlest sister.
Please note that the Bow Tie o’ the Day I chose to wear for our Maverick ride was one I rarely wear for hours at a time—because it’s very heavy. Bow Tie was crafted out of a bike tire inner tube. I especially like that it shows off its patch and its air stem.
Tune in later today for an official introduction to my new truck. You will even learn its name, and you’ll learn the story of why I couldn’t order a license plate with its name on it.
I’m writing a longer post of formal introduction to my new truck, but I haven’t finished it yet. Y’all will most likely be able to read about that vehicle tomorrow. But for today, I have a brief story about Oakley, which I was reminded of when I encountered the Frank’s Red Hot Sauce in the refrigerator this morning. The hot peppers on my Bow Tie o’ the Day underscore the theme.
I wasn’t there when it happened, but I have heard varying versions of the story many times. I am giving you the bare bones gist here. Oakley was probably about 3 or 4 when she and her family were on the road to or from Delta, which was a semi-long drive. Along the way, the car and its occupants stopped at a convenience store for treats and a potty break. The young princess, Oakley, had one complaint about her convenience store experience. She announced to all of those within earshot, “This toilet paper is spicy.” Apparently, the toilet paper in the bathroom at that particular convenience store was a bit rough on the behind, and Oakley was not about to be silent about it. What a swell description of cheap, grating toilet tissue—especially from a little kid! I’m sure you’ve heard of the Hans Christian Andersen story, “The Princess And The Pea.” Well, we had our very own Princess Oakley And The Spicy Toilet Paper.
How many sister wives did Kent get?A rare note from Nuk/Knuk.Mercedes adds the context for Kent’s note and bow tie gift.
It all began in 1969, when I was 4. I met the man o’ my dreams: Kent in a Bow Tie o’ the Day. My oldest sister, BT, married him, which I think I thought meant I had married him, too. Which, I guess, I sort of did, since he has looked out for me and made me laugh ever since, and I have no plans to divorce him in any way, shape, or form. After all these years, he is still McDreamy to me. And no one has rooted more for me about getting my new truck than Kent. In fact, he has practically nagged me about it ever since I ordered it last November. Still, after I relayed word to him that my Maverick was finally built and being shipped, I was a bit surprised when I received a note with an attached origami Bow Tie o’ the Day in the mail from Kent, who I often refer to on TIE O’ THE DAY as Nuk. Nuk has never written to me before, so this gem is a keeper.
How Kent and I got to be known as Floyd and Nuk is a tale of two completely separate tales. First, when my nephew, Travis, was little, he couldn’t pronounce Kent’s name. He called Kent “Nuk.” If anyone else called Kent “Nuk,” Travis would pipe up, “He’s not Nuk, he’s Nuk.” And thus, Kent became Nuk. Simple enough.
Somewhere near the end of 1984, Kent and I began referring to each other as Floyd. I was living with BT and Nuk at the time, while finishing up my college degree at Weber State. Although my major was English, and I was in my last quarter, I had to scurry to find one last English class to fulfill the requirements of the major. It had to be a class I hadn’t already taken and one that was being offered that quarter. I ended up stuck taking a basic Introduction to English Literature survey class with a full-blown herd of students who did not care whatsoever about anything remotely related to literature. But they could read, so they thought the class would be easy to pass. I took the class because it was literally the only English class that was available to me at the right time AND fulfilled the requirement for me to major in English.
Suffice it to say that my teacher for the Intro to Lit class was a dud. He was dull. He took all the “lit” out of literature by his very presence. He took roll every day, with 150 or so students, which took up a good chunk of class time. And if you weren’t there when your name was called, or if he didn’t hear you say “here,” you got what he actually called “demerits,” which he recorded at length in his roll book: you lost points. His bad hearing could actually affect your grade. His first name was Floyd. Well, one day I was bemoaning to Nuk all about my bad luck in getting this boring soul as my teacher, and Nuk asked me what the guy’s name was. I told him the dude’s name, and Nuk said he knew him from some church goings-on having to do with their Stake. With great sympathy, and without skipping a beat, Nuk said, “He’s a nice enough guy. But he’s drier than a popcorn fart.” That was all that needed to be said, and it still makes me chortle when I think about it. It was the perfect description of the real Floyd’s personality, or—in Floyd’s case—the lack thereof. Since then, Nuk and I have referred to each other as Floyd with great giddiness. Kent’s forever Nuk to me, and I’m honored to be his Floyd. 🍿
License plate Bow Tie o’ the Day heralds its own retirement. With the delivery of my new truck, I put my 98 Isuzu Hombre out to pasture. My red Hombre served me well for more than two decades, and it now romps freely on acres of other junked vehicles—where it will likely be used for parts. And in that way, its pieces and parts can live to ride another day. Not only did I decide it’s time to retire my faithful truck, I decided it is time to retire the infamous “HELEN W” license plates. Mom first ordered the vanity plate in the 80’s for her Oldsmobile, which we immediately began referring to as the Helenmobile. With each new car she got, she transferred her HELEN W license plate to it, and that car automatically became the new Helenmobile—whether it was an Oldsmobile or not. When Mom gave up her car keys a few years back, it made sense that she transferred the HELEN W license plate to me. I gleefully transferred it to my Hombre. I fully intended to transfer the license plate to my fancy new truck, but the testy climate of the world as it is now makes it not so wise to drive around with a license plate that shouts out your first name and last initial to passing strangers. So, with all due respect and gratitude for their previous service, I have retired the HELEN W license plates, although I will officially own them until I die.
Although Rowan’s 25th birthday was weeks ago, in August, everybody’s schedules were such that we couldn’t find a time to get together with him for a celebratory brunch, until two Sundays ago. Suzanne and I finally met up with Rowan and his flame, Cameryn, at Finn’s Cafe in Sugarhouse—where we wore the birthday party hats for a total of maybe 90 seconds, so I could snap TIE O’ THE DAY photos. Suzanne, Rowan, and Cameryn are always good to indulge me in my TO’TD efforts. For the festive occasion, I did not choose to wear my birthday balloons bow tie, as I often do for birthdays. Instead, I went with the wood, puzzle piece TIE O’ THE DAY, which is fun, but it was also more in keeping with my inner mood of that day. I was trying to fit together some big answers to a big puzzle: how could Oakley be gone?
You see, I knew that near the end of this previously scheduled brunch celebration in honor of Rowan, it would be my job to relate to him the news about Oakley’s death. Suzanne and I had been with her in the hospital room as she passed away just the night before. Rowan and Oakley spent a lot of time around each other when they were younger, despite a seven-year age difference. Since it had been a few years since Rowan and Oakley had seen each other, I did not anticipate the news would hit Rowan as hard as it did. As a parent, I hurt for him as he teared up and struggled to process the unbelievably terrible information. As a parent, I was also proud of him that he had grown into the kind of person who still carried a tiny cousin named Oakley in his heart, despite how much time had passed since they hung out together. I am now certain he will carry his love for her—and for all “the kids” in his Delta family—with him throughout his entire life. I could see Rowan is beginning to understand the magnitude of the loss of even one person in a family. He is wrestling with the loss of our incredible Oakley, who will not live an adulthood, as he has the opportunity to do. Rowan was moved enough to feel both honored and obliged to say a few words at her graveside. Our Rowan was a grown man in his grief. As such, he is trying to put together the pieces of the existential puzzle—as are we all.
Suzanne, Rowan, and I spent most of Saturday in Delta for Oakley’s funeral and burial. We ended our day there with a visit with Mom. Mom had been able to attend the funeral, but was glad to be back home at the care center. (I will write more about our visit with Mom in another post.) In honor of Oakley, I tried to pack as much purple into my wardrobe as I could, including Bow Tie o’ the Day. Even my socks and shoelaces were purple. When I commit, I am true.
I’m taking a deep breath this morning. Oakley was privately and publicly honored over the weekend, and then her body was laid to rest near family. Last week was a constant shock—of loss, and breakdown, and gutting through every moment. I can only speak for how it seemed to me, but it felt like, from one minute to the next, family and friends were alternating between being supportive to each other and being supported by each other. Now, we are supposed to get back to normal. We are supposed to go back to business as usual. But the thing about the idea of “normal” is that there is no such thing. There never was. Things are always changing, always in flux. Movement in time and space is the way all of this works. Change is the constant. Last week, in barren grief, time seemed to stop for our family. But we were the ones standing still. We stood as witnesses to Oakley’s earthly dance, and we applauded her as she entered into the eternal present she now inhabits. Today, we are again tasked with finding our momentum. We are left to choreograph our own dances. We are left to interpret the moves Oakley taught us while she was with us. I will tell you this: If you did not learn something about life’s dancing from our Oakley, it’s only because you didn’t know her.
I was ecstatic to run onto more photos of this event at Mom’s house. It struck me that Oakley’s Grandma Mary is the only person in this photo who remains with us. The late Shirley Peterson is sitting in the stuffed chair. Mom’s best friend, the late Peggy Crane, sits on the blue folding chair, playing with Oakley. Mary supervises.
I forgot I had even taken the second picture. Here, a wobbly Oakley is being escorted across the family room floor by her Uncle Jake. I know she had a unique bond with him. All through her short life, she could count on him to be solid. If I remember correctly, Jake baptized her. In the hospital with her the other night, while we were reconciling ourselves to the fact that Oakley would not live, it fell to Jake to give Oakley an encompassing blessing of release. It provided some semblance of comfort to us all.
Also, in that second photo, we see Peggy and Grant Crane. Grant is also now gone. Whenever Mom was watching the wee Oakley while Mary worked, Oakley had the privilege of accompanying Mom and Peggy on their irreverent daily Pepsi runs. I would bet my bow tie collection, that Oakley talked more than the both of them together, and that’s saying a lot because Mom and Peggy never quit talking when they were out together on a Pepsi run, driving through the wilds of Millard county.
In the third photo, that’s my oldest sister, BT/Mercedes, sitting at the table. She is clearly an early member of Oakley’s fan club. But it’s Mary’s stare that Oakley holds, as it always was. In the hospital when Oakley was born, Mary helped give her her first bath. Always, Mary has been Oakley’s champion and fervent protector.
Our vast family is too small with Oakley not here with us.
As a kid, Rowan was always drawing. He carried around a clipboard in case he got an idea for a masterpiece. At some point, he drew cartoon versions of select people. Oakley was one of his subjects. When Rowan first showed me this cartoon drawing, he asked if I knew who it was. Let’s see what the drawing “says”: Goofy? Check. Dancing? Check. Rowdy? Check. Impeccably attired? Check. Bouncy as all get-out? Check. Rowan captured all the defining traits. I knew immediately that it was the famous Oakley Jane Shiner. When I showed the drawing to Suzanne and asked her if she could tell who it was, she didn’t have to ponder who it might be. “It’s Oakley!” Oakley was a party.
Oakley, Bosten, Rowan, and the Whoopie cushion.Oakley and Rowan build things.Rowan and Oakley eat a feast at Mom’s.Rowan and Oakley graze at Grandma Helen’s.Oakley checks out Roxy’s fat belly.
Although we lived primarily “up north” until 2017, we also had the house next door to Mom and Dad in Delta. We called it The Desert Beach House. We spent almost every holiday and school break there. Rowan and I spent most of each summer there, and Suzanne would join us for a couple of weeks when work allowed. Suzanne spent most of her time in Delta sleeping and sewing. Rowan spent a lot of his Delta time hanging around with whatever configuration of “the kids” was over at Mom’s. He watched them grow up, even as he grew up himself. They all got along, but as I look back, I think Oakley and Bosten seemed to find themselves trailing Rowan around most often. In the first photo here, you see the three of them in Rowan’s room filling up a Whoopie cushion which they would later place on Mom’s chair on the porch. Mom was a good sport when she sat on on it. She played up her surprise dramatically as she slowly sat down on it, making the fart sounds last an inordinately lengthy time. The kids found ways to slip it under her over and over throughout the day. Mom played along long past her patience with the trick had worn thing. They all enjoyed the Whoopie cushion, but Mom wasn’t upset when Rowan and the kids, for some reason, couldn’t find where I accidentally on purpose lost it for a while.
One day when Oakley was maybe 3 or 4, Rowan and a bunch of the kids had been playing outside between the two yards, when he came into our house and sat down with great exaggeration and accompanying loud sighs of frustration. I asked him what was wrong. He blurted out, “I had to get away!” He continued, “Oakley won’t quit talking! Why does Oakley ask so many questions?” I knew exactly what he meant. But I laughed, because talking incessantly and asking question after question about everything, from morning until night—well, that was a trait Rowan and Oakley shared. Rowan was the talkative pot calling the kettle chatty. I am grateful I had the chance to be the audience for their verbal conversation marathons for so many years.
Here I am, on Oakley’s inaugural 4th of July, reluctantly handing her off to whoever was the next person clamoring to give her loves and spoil her for a while. Over the years, there have been times I couldn’t remember where I had tucked away this or that photo. But I have always known exactly where my Oakley-and-me-at-the-parade photo is, whatever house I’ve had it in.
If you have ever experienced a July 4th in Delta, you know it feels like practically every person who lives in the vicinity of the town—or once lived there, or was born there, or married someone who was born there, or whose car once broke down there—is uptown at the parade. Prime viewing spots are carefully claimed and staked out with groups of empty chairs, days before the big event. Most people in the community are good to unofficially “grandfather in” certain spots for families who have sat in the same viewing spots for literally generations. If you drive east over the overpass during the days before the 4th, and look out to the other end of Main Street, you’ll see empty chairs lining both sides of the street, from one end of the town to the other. You’ll see what looks like a version of the Parting of the Red Sea: imagine waves and walls of chairs instead of water. It’s a vast canyon of beach chairs, lawn chairs, church folding chairs, piano benches, kitchen chairs, and the occasional recliner that lines the street. On the 4th itself, the chairs are full of revelers early, for the the parade and its accompanying festivities.
About now, y’all are wondering what this description of 4th of July chairs has to do with Oakley. I fully intended to use this post to write about some of the Independence Day hi-jinks I saw her pull over the years, but another blade of grief just hit. I cannot write another word right now. That’s the best answer I can give you. Photos prompt too much feeling in us sometimes. I have to stop.
