No Safe Distance

Why the Blackhawks Make Me Believe in God

So, there I was, driving and crying.

Crying because I'm tired. Crying because I've had a lot of family stuff happen since Dad died. Crying because we're selling his house. Crying because I'm afraid it won't sell in this economy. Crying because I got caught in a family dynamic that I hate more than I have words for. But mostly crying because I miss Michael. Miss his laugh. Miss his humor and the way he never failed to make me smile. Miss the "rocklike substance" he was for me (and a whole lot of others) at times like these. Mostly right now I miss going with him to Lenten services. This time of year with him was profoundly meaningful and is hitting me terribly hard as a result.

So, with each mile I'm crying a little more. Not so bad I have to pull over, but trending that way, for sure.

And then I see a guy walking on the street in a Hawks sweatshirt and I think I should try to smile at that but it's kind of hard. So, I blink a few times fast to clear my vision and I turn the corner and into the parking lot of the auto parts store (BOTH my low beam lights burned out the other NIGHT). Since I was not wanting to go crying into the store I thought I would distract myself by checking the email on my phone.

Who was there?

Kevin Magnuson. Yes, that Magnuson. Keith's son.

He was wishing my husband and I a happy playoff season as we face off against the Canucks in the first round and sent me an article about why the Cup meant so much to his family last year. (That victory night was the last time I saw my own father, as it turns out.)

How on earth would it have happened that I would get an email from Kevin, you ask?

Well, first a little back story:

Keith was Michael's best friend. Keith came to visit Michael in the hospital after his injury and was at his side throughout. He fed him his first solid food on Christmas eve. He was with him when he took his first steps and became a quadriplegic miracle. He was everything to Michael and his loss was devastating.

I don't think a week went by when we didn't mention "The Chief". I never got to meet him but he showed up all the time when I was with Michael in synchronistic appearances of his number "3" usually. I got to attend the game where his jersey was retired and both Michael and I shed tears as we listened to his son, Kevin, speak at the occasion. (I didn't meet the Magnuson family at that time, though.)

So, because my husband is amazing and awesome, I got the coolest Christmas present ever this year.

A gorgeous Keith Magnuson jersey. Full stitching, real deal, awesome jersey.

And it so happens that we were going to be downtown having a brunch with friends a couple months later on Hockey Awareness Day.  I don't wear sports memorabilia out to nice restaurants but I was morally obligated to that day so I had my Magnuson jersey on.

And after a lovely meal I stood to go and suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around only to see a very nice red-headed young gentleman smiling and offering his hand.

"I'm Kevin Magnuson."

Before the poor guy knew what was happening I had him gripped in a bear hug and told him who I was and about my relationship with Michael and showed him the pics of the "Hockey Puck" headstone that I have in my phone.

And then I left the restaurant and broke down crying on the sidewalk. Kind of like I am now.

Somehow in Chicago on a Sunday afternoon game day with untold numbers of people out and about and countless Hawks attire being sported I happened to be right where Kevin was and he, in honor of his father and because he is such a stellar young man, made a point to come up to me (as he likes to do whenever he sees his Dad's jersey) to thank me for wearing it.

"Wear it proud," he said.

Believe me, I do.

So, when a couple months later, the "I just can't take it anymore right now" distress signal went out into the ether and somehow Kevin chose that very minute I was pulling into the parking lot to send me the article about his Dad and happy playoff wishes you will never be able to tell me that there weren't two hockey pucks looking down on me working that whole thing out.

Now if they can just help us shut down Luongo...

The View from Almost 50, Farewell Duck L'Orange

I'm getting old.

Not ancient. Not feeble. Not "Just set me up in a rocking chair and rub my bunions, please Dearie" old. Just older than I was when I was 30.

Older as in "Wow, I don't bounce back like I used to" older. Older as in "Hip hop?! You call that music? Now, Ella. Billie. That was music. You young people of today have no idea what music is" older. Older as in "Why on earth do I have TWO punch bowl sets?!" older.

The answer to that last question is that I've lived long enough to have friends and family even older than me who are now downsizing and, bless their hearts, they still think I'm young enough to make use of the things they've barely used themselves. Things like punch bowls, warming trays and 40 cup coffee makers.

And that's not counting the inherited stuff I now have squirreled around my home.

Then there is the stuff that wasn't quite inherited but needs to find a home anyway, like the rest of Dad's estate and Michael's things. There has been a lot of dismantling going on around me for a few years now and this past year even moreso. It's daunting, to see how much sheer material volume even one closet can hold, much less a room, a house, a garage...

And each piece needs to be weighed...for sentimental value, functional value, resale value, donation value...every single screwdriver, spoon, and bag full of "twist ties", along with that collection of unmarked spare keys. Every pair of tweezers, tea cup and scrap of paper with cryptic scribbled notes in handwriting you know you won't be seeing any more of, not to mention the entire contents of the infamous "junk drawer".

It can be overwhelming physically, mentally and emotionally.

Despite being immersed in the process of dismantling multiple estates simultaneously I have had my wrestling points when it comes to my own "stuff". Like many people, I come from a long line of "this will come in handy when..." folk. When my Mom sent the list this week of kitchenware items she is clearing out as she prepares to move later this summer, I had a flash of "that would be perfect for when I host those big holiday parties" thoughts run through my head. I'll admit I was tempted by the warming tray (which was filled with Swedish Meatballs in my mind's eye, though I've never made a single one in my life and doubt I ever will).

And then there are the Julia Child cookbooks. The big clay roaster.

I put in my dibs like the rest of my siblings and then I remembered: I don't have a big family and the family I do have isn't really all that close. My siblings have all gravitated toward their in-laws so we don't have a hub on "our side". I don't have kids so I won't have grandkids. I have a husband and a dog.

As for Julia Child, I've barely made a dent in my own cookbooks. I don't really need her to sit on my shelf and mock me no matter how much I secretly wanted to learn how to make a perfect Duck L'Orange.

At this point in my limited life I'm letting some dreams go.

If I have the time to learn French cooking I think I'd rather be spending that time with my husband on our bikes. I can't do both.

Of course, that's not entirely true. Some people rule nations. Some raise 19 kids and counting. With a little dedication, discipline and time management, I could surely learn to cook a duck properly and bike to the river and back.

The thing is, I don't want to. And THAT realization is awesome. With age, I believe, is coming sanity. Besides, have you ever seen what roasting a duck does to the inside of an oven? Who needs it? (My God, I think I'm becoming my Grandmother!)

I remember what it was like when I was in my 30's and wanted to sample every last drop of life. I squeezed every bit I could out of every minute of the day and had goals set for the next 20 years. I was never bored for a minute and was voracious in my attempt to learn and master everything I had an interest in. I loved life!

I was also miserable. I never felt like I was doing enough. I was an ever expanding one-woman Universe and still felt like I was letting too much of life slip by unsampled. Too many things I tried were left unmastered and I always felt like I was failing as a result.

And then I was forced to slow waaaay down as I watched some people I adored come to the end of their lives and I had to wipe 95% of what I was carrying off my plate in order to do that well. It was worth every waylaid plan, particularly as I assumed I would pick back up with "my own life" later. 

I had underestimated how much of a process there remains for the living to go through when a life ends.

In addition to the emotional process of dealing with the losses, when those lives ended and all their stuff was left behind I got to sit with it all. Every saved date book (I met Michael on 10/11/1990 in case you were wondering), every cup full of pens and pencils, every rake and garden hoe, every set of towels, each computer back up disc and sheet of Sierra Club return address labels. I saw what was used and what was saved. What dreams never reached their fruition. What was well-used and what was saved for...a later that never came, a party that was never thrown, a repair that was never needed, a garden bed that was never laid, and the kids that turned out to not really want some of those things after all...

It changed the way I felt about my own home. About time vs. money. Stuff vs. people. The way I am actually living today vs. how I envision it might be someday. (Swedish meatballs?Really?!)

I even toyed with the idea that I needed to save my parents' things for my nieces and nephews before it dawned on me that they have parents who can do that for them. My nieces and nephews will have enough to do going through MY stuff when I go. And after dealing with my Dad's house, I'm already in the process of trying to make dismantling my own estate easier for them, labelling things, getting rid of excess, organizing boxes. I'm just being realistic, I won't have more energy to do this when I'm 75, even if I do have the health.

So I wrote back to my Mom and took back my "dibs". She has lovely things, and it was a generous offer but the TRUTH is I want for nothing. I don't want a single thing. Never once have I gone to make breakfast and found myself saying, "If only I had a large cast iron frying pan right now."

"Not even the cookbooks? You still want Julia Child, don't you?"

"No, Ma, not even the cookbooks."

Anyone out there want a punch bowl?