Category: Stories

Posted on

The Hombre Inventory

After driving my 98 Hombre since I bought it in 2001, I have happily driven its little guts out. The cushion on the driver’s seat is nonexistent: my butt has been sitting on metal for the last three years. The dashboard is cracked right down the middle, where I’ve had to bang on it if I wanted the radio to work, even though the stereo worked fine. And the dog nose smudges on the passenger side window that I purposely never washed—I almost kept that window and framed it, but I let my good sense win on that account. I traded in the entire Hombre, so now she’s all gone. I expected the dealership to give me maybe $100 for the trade-in value, but I was pleasantly surprised when they offered me a whole $1,000. Seriously, I just handed them the Hombre’s keys and hoped they wouldn’t call me back later saying, after further consideration, I owed them money for all their hassle to take it to car heaven.

When I cleaned out the old girl, I found everything I have laid out for you in these photos. I was not surprised by much, although I was a bit fascinated by a couple of things, as you will see. Here’s my truck’s Ed Hardy “LOVE KILLS SLOWLY” sunscreen, which I have used here as the display for the rest of the inventory. Kinda moving from left to right: 2 pairs of work gloves; a spare party Bow Tie o’ the Day; a keyed gas cap; fluffy holiday antlers and a red nose for the truck to wear; 4 notebooks; a pack of argyle tissues; a pack of Virginia Slims Superslims cigarettes I used as a prop in a TIE O’ THE DAY post years ago; a dime; 4 pocketknives; 8 pens; the printed name “MERCEDES” I used to cover up my sister’s Betty Rae’s name on Dad’s headstone when she first came to see it, cuz she doesn’t like her name; a dog chew; 2 TIE O’ THE DAY bracelets; a pack of cough drops; a bottle of antibacterial gel; my Ute window flag; a copy of the The Constitution; a book of matches; 3 all-in-one utility tools; a boxed aluminized emergency blanket; jumper cables; a green comb; an ice scraper/brush; a baggie o’ old pretzels; a pile o’ maps and truck documents. And finally, look closely at my Ute flag. You will see I finally found the hearing aid I lost almost two years ago. Yup, I found it on the floor behind my seat in the Hombre, under a layer of dog fur. It has been surreptitiously listening to me this whole time. Oh, and the really final thing you can see on my Ute flag is the last tampon left in existence on any property I live in or drive in. It will not be moving into the new truck. 🚬

Posted on

Retired

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.

Posted on

Sometimes I Forget

When I venture out into the community, I am used to receiving a certain level of attention to whatever my Bow Tie o’ the Day might be that particular day. My neckwear often gets a second look from people as I walk past. But when I was erranding one day last week—while wearing my jumbo seersucker cirtrus Bow Tie o’ the Day—some members of the public were giving me what I deemed to be an extra-long double glimpse. I asked myself, “Why is this bow tie more double-take-worthy than it has ever been before?” It’s true I was also wearing my new Lemonhead socks, but folks weren’t looking too over-long at them. No, I was sure something was up with the bow tie itself. Had I spilled something garish on it? Was I wearing it upside down? I was just about to take off my bow tie and examine it, when some old geezer caught my eye and said, “I forget about mine, too.” He pointed to my right cheekbone, and I knew immediately what I had done: I had forgotten to wash the lipstick off my cheek from Suzanne’s kiss goodbye when she went to work that morning. I do this more often than you can imagine. I replied to the guy, “Yeah, but we never forget we’re loved.” And we both went happily on with our respective errands. 💋

Posted on

Rowan’s Belated Birthday Brunch

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.

Posted on

No, That’s Not Eye Shadow

My polka dot Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are astonished to see my distressed eyelid deepening in color to this extent. I guess I could say I’ve inadvertently discovered a free eye shadow hack, and I could easily do this to my other eyelid—for purposes of symmetry. But my good sense tells me it is a wiser move to stop at a single pretty, purpled eyelid. I shall not purposely attempt to injure my left eyelid the way I accidentally fwhomped my right one.

Here’s the absurdly simple thing I did to myself which gave me a black eye: Early Saturday morning, before it was light outside, I was packing my truck for our drive to Oakley’s funeral. My arms were full of things we needed to take with us to Delta. You know how, when you get a new vehicle, you have to get used to where various controls are located? Well, I guess I needed to get used to how tall and wide the truck’s doors are in the dark. I juggled what I was carrying to load up. I set a few items on the ground to get a free hand, so I could open the truck door. I grabbed the door handle. I lifted the handle and pulled the door open with the extra oomph of joy I felt at finally having my new truck living with me. Apparently, I and my oomph are stronger than I imagined, and the doors to my truck are of significantly larger dimensions than those on my old jalopy truck. As I pulled the door open, I slammed the door’s edge right into my right eye. (Be fair in your judgment of me—it was still dark outside.) My eye socket, fortunately, was stronger than the door, and it protected my eyeball. Above my right eyebrow, you can see a barely-there scratch or two where the door made its impact. The door hit particularly hard—I’m sure because of the Mr. Atlas strength in my writing arm. I did not, however, anticipate that my eyelid would put on a show of color for all to see. Although I could feel the bump I got on my eyebrow all during that day, I didn’t notice the bruise showing at all while we were in Delta. On the way home, we stopped for a potty break in Nephi, and both Suzanne and Rowan told me they could see the beginnings of a bruise. Today, its color has deepened to a pleasant shade of home-bottled grape juice.

It is a crumby thing—especially for a writer—when a groovy-looking visible wound comes with a such a pathetic back story to be told about its true origin. I could have lied about it and made up a much more interesting-but-false tall-tale about how anxiously engaged in a good cause I was when I acquired my eye’s Red Badge o’ Courage. Some days, though, the simple klutzy truth is what comes out of my noggin. 🙄

Posted on

Everything Left To Say

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.

Posted on

Oakley Gets All The Attention At Mom’s 75th Birthday Bash

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.

Posted on

Cartoon Oakley

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.

Posted on

Rowan and Oakley At Our Tumbleweed Ranch

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.

Posted on

Oakley’s First Delta, UT July 4th Parade

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.