singing the praises of an inanimate object

My dutch oven.

I roasted one of my chickens in it the other night.

Then, I put the entire thing in the fridge to work on for the next day or two.

Then, I put water in it and placed it on the hot stove burner and am making bone broth.

It’s the cookware item that without it, one needs 15 others, and with it, one needs nothing else.

Plus, it goes on the river.

 

One more post for the night…

Rental dog update:

Owner is safe and sound – minus most of his head hair.

Singed.

 

Dog remains here where she has enchanted Elvis.

Okay, maybe not. I looked over at him endearingly as I wrote that and now see the truth.

He has piled all of his bones and toys in a pile and is now sleeping on top of it.

All of this before 2:00 pm:

Rent-al to get the log splitter. City Market to get breakfast and lunch for the boys using the splitter. Home. Fire in the neighborhood – house burned to the ground. Gave my cashmere socks to the barefooted man who narrowly escaped the flames with his dog and his life. And his oxygen machine. Meanwhile, back down the road my children and friend have arrived and are beginning the splitting of 3 cords of wood, while my landlord has just shown up to tear apart my sink because it won’t drain. And I am suddenly hosting this bug-eyed chihuahua who bit me while I was attempting to catch her. I needed to catch her because her person had just gotten into an ambulance and was also suddenly homeless and apparently knowing this guy through another guy whose last name I don’t even know makes me next of kin dog keeper.

A Mother’s Worst Fear

This was in the paper about today’s school shooting:

“Some parents reported hearing from their children via text messages that they could hear the shooter approaching.”

I am nauseous, and shaking. I cannot imagine what those parents were feeling in those moments; living it, moment by moment, with their child.

“My child is trapped in a school with a person headed his way to possibly kill him.”

HOLYFUCK.

When I say that I can’t imagine, it’s the truth. I’ve been sitting here actually trying to create that in my head, in my heart, and my mind just shuts down.

Today’s shooting is too close to home. We all know people in that town, kids in that school. A lot of folks here have family down there. It’s only an hour away.

Which, around here is practically the next town over.

My hot tow truck driver yesterday has kids in that high school.

The last 7 years have been interesting in my relationship with guns. I am a non-violent hippie. My children were not allowed to play guns in any way. They went to Waldorf school.

Enough said.

So, somehow, years later, I end up with a gun safe in my bedroom and I even own a gun and my children each have one.

I adjusted, I kind of got into it. I killed a few pop-guts. I tried to kill a lot more. I shot an AR15.

I was okay with it all most of the time, until another mass shooting would happen.

Gun control was a hot topic – scalding – we didn’t go there. We tried a few times and realized that if we continued with these conversations, we might end up not liking each other at all.

Plus, living with a second amender with guns in my bedroom made me feel a little hypocritical

So today, I was standing in my kitchen crying as I had just heard the news about the high school, and had this awareness that I don’t have to feel like a hypocrite any more.

And I don’t have to try to wrap my head around a perspective that is so not mine.

Sorry to offend, but no parent should ever have to live through what those parents lived through today.

 

One more hurdle cleared

The anxiety of running into him has been crippling every time I go anywhere that he might be.

For a town this size, you’d think it would have happened before now, but we have managed to avoid each other for close to 2 months.

And, for a town this size, it was inevitable.

And, I couldn’t wait any longer; I don’t do well with anticipation or surprises.

So I contacted him and we decided to intentionally run into each other in my kitchen at work.

Yes I was nervous; I had no idea how it was going to go down. I was optimistic because he agreed that it was a good idea.

It was kind and gentle: no processing, no anger or crying, no “who, what, why, where, when, or how.”

No need for that any longer.

I have accepted that I am not going to get what I need in the aftermath of this whole debacle, so I figured I would be okay with gentle and kind.

A friend came to sit with his coffee in the cafe. I told him he couldn’t sit in there until after MXB and I had talked.

I also told him that he couldn’t go farther than the next room because I would need him later. He complied. He reminded me to breathe when it was all over.

I thought I’d be a wreck. Thought that I would sink deep again; spiral, spin out, hyperventilate.

None of those things happened.

What did happen was a sense of relief…

Relief that I no longer had to anticipate our first run-in and relief that I am moving on. I didn’t realize how much so until this encounter.

He’s adorable and I love him deeply, and he’s not for me – not anymore.

For the very first time since we began all of those years ago, I saw him as younger than I. I saw, felt, heard, the age difference. Not in a bad way, but for the first time since we began I was aware that we couldn’t have lasted.

Right after the split I thought to myself, “The age difference finally caught up to us.” We pushed back for years, but inevitably the 15 years between the two of us was going to bite us in the ass.

And it did.

Too bad we couldn’t just walk away gracefully with that knowledge, no bitterness, no rage, no crushed souls.

But who can really do a breakup that way?

Not us, obviously.

I picture him, them, all of our friends, doing the backyard barbecue thing, babes in arm, toddlers running amok.

Holy Shit. That is NOT for me.

Thank fucking god.

I do better with teenagers. I do much better with my teenagers.

I love that my teenagers are grown men, men with whom I can laugh and carry on a conversation about what’s happening in Utah right now, men who, at the end of their day, love their mama, and yet, can dress themselves.

I don’t want to go in the direction he does.

He seemed so very young and tender to me yesterday. I’m not going to say that I felt anything maternal towards him – but as I sat with it all last night I thought, “I really am too fucking old for him.”

And then, “He really is too fucking young for me.”

With that knowledge, with that admission, comes freedom.