For Jason…

One of my dear cousins died last week, and it has hit me hard.  Jason R. Jarvis was a son, a husband, a brother, an uncle, a father to 2 adoring children, a cousin, and a friend to most everyone he met. He was an avid hunter and fisherman, and had a knowledge of the great outdoors unlike anyone else I know. He was an assistant Scout Master, and nothing made him happier than to see young kids gain an appreciation and a healthy respect for the beauty of the wilderness. He was an accomplished archer, and was one of only two TWRA Safety Instructor instructors in the state of Tennessee. (I know that sounds redundant, but it means he taught the safety instructors.)

Jason had an infectious smile, a quick wit, and a beautiful singing voice. He loved a good meal – and the ensuing belch it produced, a wicked joke, and bluegrass music. Some of my fondest memories are of spending Tuesday evenings during the summer with him, sitting in the balcony of that hallowed venue for “Bluegrass Night at The Ryman.”  We sang along to Alison Krauss and The Cox Family as they performed “Far Side Bank of Jordan” and we marveled for a long time afterwards that we were able to see Dr. Ralph Stanley and the father of bluegrass himself -- Bill Monroe -- at one of the last shows they performed together. (We also shared a hearty laugh at Naomi Judd slipping into the balcony and trying to act like she was incognito, all while drawing attention to herself with her oversized hat and sunglasses. At night.)

Jason taught me about pine tar, the destructive power of poison ivy even in winter when it has no identifying leaves -- which just seems so unfair to most of us unsuspecting humans -- and how to make the best fire starters in the world (cotton balls saturated with petroleum jelly, for anyone who is interested). We talked about the best bows, the pros and cons of Ruger vs. Sig Sauer in my quest for a new pistol, camping, and the fine art of cooking over an open fire.

But the biggest lesson Jason Jarvis taught me was one I didn’t grasp at the time. And yet I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since his untimely death last week at the age of 43.

~~~~~~~

For those of you who live here, you know that middle Tennessee isn’t known for having much of a winter, and measureable snows don’t occur often. But several years ago, Nashville and the surrounding area were blanketed with a rare snow; it started that morning, and by mid-afternoon there was 6 inches on the ground and it showed no signs of slowing. Suddenly, my phone rang, and it was Jason.

 “What are you and Crabapple doing?” he bellowed. [“Crabapple” was one of Jason’s aptly loving nicknames for my Mom. The other was “Ernie-chank.”]

“Watching this gorgeous snow come down and marveling at the stillness,” I answered.

“Well, I’ve got the canoe in the truck and I’m headed to the Harpeth. I’m gonna put in down around the old homestead in White Bluff. Come on -- go with me.”

Now mind you, it was already mid-afternoon, and by the time we could traverse the hazardous roads and venture 30 miles west, I had no doubt it would be near dark before we could put the canoe in the water. And although the thought of going on such an adventure was more than mildly exhilarating, I ultimately expounded upon all the reasons why I shouldn’t go.

Me: “It’ll be nearly dark before we can even get on the river…”

Jason: “I know! Can you imagine how gorgeous this is gonna be? Everything covered in white, it’ll be as bright as day out there! And just think how quiet it will be!”

Me: “Except for the chattering of my teeth… What if I fall overboard? I’ll freeze to death before you could haul me back in the canoe.”

Jason: “Then don’t fall out. Besides, just dress in enough layers; you’ll be peeling them off by the time we start paddling.”

Me: “It’s gonna be dicey even getting down there in this weather…”

Jason: “LeAnne, you drive a JEEP, for crying out loud!”

I laughed at his infectious enthusiasm, but ultimately begged off, saying I’d do it “next time.”

But “next time” never came. We were never again blessed to have a perfect snow on a weekday afternoon and the opportunity to enjoy it together.  An inflexible job, numerous responsibilities, and other demands monopolized my time. And the next thing I knew, “Life” had gotten in the way of “Living.”

~~~~~~~

We’ve got to seize our opportunities when they come along, because there’s no guarantee they’ll ever come around again. And it doesn’t necessarily have to be some grand event we take part in. It could be as simple as pulling off the side of the road to appreciate the rainbow traversing the sky, when the sun suddenly bursts through the clouds after a storm. Who cares if you’re 10 minutes late for dinner? 

It could mean getting down in the floor to tickle your great-niece as she coos and giggles, even though you “need” to be doing other things. What could be more important than savoring a moment with a tiny baby who will be half-grown in the blink of an eye? 

It could be taking the time to watch a hawk lazily circling above, and spying the branch he comes to rest on as he surveys his prey. Wouldn’t you rather do that than fight with your mate? 

Or it could be enjoying the feeling of rolling up your pants and wading in a cool creek on a hot summer day. I’d rather do that on my lunch break than contemplate how much I hate my job any day, wouldn't you?

Maybe it’s as simple as throwing caution to the wind and going canoeing in a snowstorm one evening, just for the sheer enjoyment of marveling at the beauty of nature and spending time with someone you love. 

Or it could be as simple as picking up the phone and telling the people who matter the most how much we love them, because we never know when that opportunity will be taken from us. 

That’s the most important lesson of all.

I write this with tears streaming down my face, and I just want to tell my dear sweet Jason: I get it now. I understand. Lesson learned.

There's something about a "new year" that always has me waxing  -- well... if not poetic, at least somewhat verbose. Hah! Who am I kidding? I'm ALWAYS verbose. But I was talking today with a co-worker who also happens to be a dear friend and she made a valid point: what is it about a "new year" that makes people get all mushy gushy? The stroke of midnight tonight is not coated with some magic fairy dust: when I wake up tomorrow, I will still have the same soul-sucking job, drive the same car in dire need of an alignment and a brake job, my house will still be filthy and I will still be fat. 12:01AM January 1, 2012 will not magically change any of these facts.

And while we're on the subject, let's talk about "New Year's resolutions." We make "resolutions" which are oftentimes unrealistic and unattainable, and when we fail to achieve them, we wind up feeling like failures ourselves. When what we should be doing is setting goals that are at least somewhat reachable.

So my "goals" for the new year are simple.
1) Appreciate my good customers. They make the job somewhat tolerable. And one never knows what opportunities may arise from good connections :)
2) Put a new battery in the Jeep. Even though the car was a lifesaver leading up to and especially after shoulder surgery when I  couldn't raise my arm to drive a stick shift, I miss driving my Jeep. And even though the Jeepster only gets about a mile or two or ten to the gallon, driving it makes me happy.
3) Clean the back porch. This is actually a more daunting task than one might imagine. But if I can manage to carve out a clean area of one hundred twenty square feet, imagine what might eventually be accomplished with the rest of the house?
4) Eat more chocolate. Preferably dark. This is the ONE goal I'm pretty sure I can accomplish. And I can even justify it by citing the fact that some studies say it's good for you. So who am I to argue with medical recommendations that involve the consumption of chocolate?
5) Lose a couple of pounds. Sure, I could stand to lose about 80, but am I going to starve myself to do it? Um, that would be a resounding "no." As evidence: see #4) above. Yes, I have the motivation that I'm going to be an attendant at a dear friend's oceanside wedding in Maui this coming summer, but I've already resigned myself to the fact that I'll be the Melissa McCarthy look-alike bridesmaid at this shindig. The redeeming fact is that I've promised not to challenge the other bridesmaids and the bride-to-be to a bachelorette "Fight Club" party. But I still may find a Brazilian restaurant for us to eat at :)

my iPod is doing a happy dance

 This is a slightly off the wall post, but why not...  I'm a music fanatic, and just had to share what I personally think is a phenomenal buy.  If there are any classical music lovers out there, I found a deal on iTunes that shouldn't be missed. When putting together the music for my aunt's memorial service, I stumbled across "The 100 Most Essential Pieces of Classical Music" for $9.99. Anyone who purchases on iTunes regularly knows that average "per track" purchase prices range from 69 cents to $1.29.  This collection breaks down to TEN CENTS per track. And none of it is "filler" or abbreviated versions. Whether you know the tracks by name or not, or even if you have no clue who composed them, you will know these pieces.

NOTHING calms me down from a hellacious day spent dealing with the public like listening to classical music. So go check it out. You can thank me later :)

Personal faves: Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata", Barber's "Adagio For Strings", Rachmaninoff's "Prelude in C-Sharp Minor." 

just a writer...

Digging around on the 'net, I found a link to a literary website where I was reading about French author Collette. I was struck by a particular quote of hers: "Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it."

I've always hoped that I could one day transition from writer to author, but I'm not so sure that being just a writer is necessarily a bad thing. I would like to think that some of my better writing has come from just opening up my heart and allowing my thoughts to flow. But I also derive great pleasure in editing, and already have one published book edit under my belt. (I hope that's not a commentary on me -- that I'm more a fan of my own verbosity than that of others. I really do edit myself; I have the cuts to prove it.)

There are certain writers who have such a distinctive style and voice that resonates with me, I enjoy their everyday ruminations as much as I do their structured pieces. (*ahem* -- you know who you are. *cough* cough* snuff*snuff*  I must stop mentioning you lest you think I have a crush :) Jen Lancaster is another of my favorite reads who writes in a conversational style about the everyday happenings in her life. In fact, her publishing deal was garnered after building a huge internet following while chronicling the trials and travails associated with job-hunting in the post-911 apocalyptic job market. Who knew going from a 6-figure income to standing in the unemployment line could be such a fun read? I guess it was the endearing snarkiness of it all -- I love me some well-written snarky.

So... I'll try to be a little more liberal with the knife when dissecting my own stuff. But if I remain just a writer, that's ok too.

Current Music: Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" - London Philharmonic

In memory of fran... 

I just returned home from a looonng and exhausting day spent at the funeral home and cemetery. My 86-year-old aunt passed from this life about 2am Sunday after an arduous last couple of years, and an especially difficult last couple of months. She had been hospitalized 5 times since the first of November, battling COPD, emphysema and congestive heart failure. When she entered the hospital last week with pneumonia, it quickly became evident that this would be her last hospitalization, and her body eventually had enough and shut down.

Our family kept a round-the-clock vigil from Thursday forward, with someone being by her side virtually the entire time. When her middle daughter (who had been her primary care-giver for the past 12 years) left the hospital Saturday night for just a few hours to shower, change and catch a quick nap, she told her mom, "Now don't you go anywhere until I get back."  And in a final act of defiance, my aunt waited until everyone had left to draw her last breath and leave this life.

It is still hard to envision my aunt as an 86-year-old who had a myriad of health problems which eventually took her life, because I will always remember her as the "cool" aunt whom I have tried to pattern my life after. She loved sports, as both spectator and participant, and was quick to instill that love in her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She also had the most extensive collection of classical music I've ever seen, and indulged me spending hours at a time, lying in the middle of her living floor, listening to her albums. An avid fisherman, she had won several tournaments down through the years, and had even won a top-of-the-line fully tricked-out bass boat as top prize in one of the bigger tournaments. She and her second husband were also pilots, and they shared ownership of a twin-engine Cessna with several other couples. She was part of the Civil Air Patrol, and on occasion would fly commercial to pick up a plane, and then fly it to it's destination. She is the only person I know personally who survived a plane crash; she was piloting a plane for delivery when a sudden wind sheer forced her down on approach at the head of the runway. The new plane was totaled, but she walked away from the wreckage and was cleared of any error once the FAA investigation was completed.

She was fun-loving, raucous, often ribald, but always about FAMILY. Very few families nowadays extend past 3 or possibly 4 generations at most, but my favorite photo of my aunt is the one of her, her daughter, her granddaughter, her great-grandson, and her great-great-grandson. Five generations. In all, she had 3 daughters, 11 grandchildren, 27 great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandson. She was a strong female - a true matriarch - and she has given rise to a family inhabited by strong females, of which I am proud to be numbered. And it was these very females who planned and carried out one of the most personal and meaningful memorial services of which I have ever been a part.

The eulogy I delivered contained this particular story which I feel summed up her life. I remember back to one spring when I was a little girl; our area has always been plagued by tornadoes and damaging weather, but this particular storm was worse than most. In that one weekend, my aunt's apartment roof was blown away, the hangar collapsed, her plane was flipped and the wings torn off, and her boat dock and bass boat sank.  When I expressed my dismay, she said, "Aww, it's just "stuff." We'll replace it. Or we won't." I remembered thinking to myself: "Wow, she must be rich."  But as I grew older and came to appreciate the special place she and her family occupy in my life, and as I looked out on that sea of faces gathered to honor her, I see how rich she truly was.

I love my brother. And no, I don't mean that in a weird Angelina-kissing-James-Haven-on-the-lips-at-the-Oscars sorta way. I mean that I really do love my brother, and our relationship has done nothing but blossom over the past decade or so.

We've had an interesting relationship down through the years, going all the way back to my arrival on this earth. He was an oh-so-cool almost 13 when I made my unplanned appearance, and I think he was probably more embarrassed by the fact that I was solid evidence that our parents still had sex than he was perturbed by my actual existence. Although a newborn being added to the family certainly put a damper on his fun, he tolerated me. Only when I turned 6 or 7 and showed an aptitude for anything involving a bat and ball did he decide that I was probably a keeper. Athletic prowess raised my worth in my brother's eyes and may explain a little why I value athleticism to this day.

But my brother and I never had a nuts and bolts sorta relationship because of the disparity in our ages. The year he started college was the year I started FIRST GRADE. Our poor mother had kids in school for 30 straight years, and by the time I was reaching my formative years and building relationships, my brother was already out of the house, married, and starting a family of his own. We enjoyed each other's company, but we didn't see each other that often and didn't have that much in common, or so it seemed. When we did spend time around one another, it could sometimes be rocky, due to the fact we are both somewhat stubborn and rather opinionated. (There is a now rather legendary family story of he and I getting into a verbal disagreement out in the yard at my mother's house that reached such a crescendo as to cause one of the neighbors to come outside and see what the ruckus was about. When she saw who it was, she quickly ducked back inside so as to not get hit by any stray verbiage. And in case you're wondering: the argument involved the relative height the lawnmower blade should be set at. I kid you not.)

Fast forward a number of years to about 6 or 8 years ago. Our father had already passed, and our mother's health had been less than stellar, and she was becoming more and more dependent on me, due to the fact that I lived 2 doors away and he lived an hour and a half away. I didn't begrudge this; it was just a fact of convenience and logistics, but it was starting to wear on me a little. My brother has always been extremely giving; all I've ever had to do was tell him I or our mother needed something and it was ours -- no questions asked. But I was becoming more and more drained by the day-to-day demands and I felt he needed to take a slightly more active role, so I called a pow-wow to discuss it. The result? Little more than two months later, he put his gorgeous house on the market and moved 45 minutes closer. He contributes monthly to covering Mom's bills, comes up almost weekly to help do yard work or stuff around her house and has been a huge help to both Mom and me.

But the most important point in all this has been the strengthening and deepening of our relationship. My brother has come to see me as a responsible adult and not just his "little sister" and I've come to appreciate him for the man he is. He is a man who loves his wife and family, loves God, and has raised 2 beautiful sons who are now wonderful young men, with families of their own. He is a loving grandfather who is just a big ol' kid at heart. He loves traveling, sports and music. And it is this latter love that gave us one of the most enjoyable nights ever together.

My brother turned me on to "The Sing-Off" and I quickly became hooked on this a cappella competition that aired over a period of 3 weeks in December. We each had our favorites, but both of us LOVED Street Corner Symphony, 6 local guys (from here in Nashvegas) who finished second in the competition. When my brother found out they were singing at a local club, he bought tickets for he and his wife and for myself as well, and the concert Tuesday night was one of the best shows I've ever been to. There's something about good music that is just soul-stirring, and he gets that. More than once that night, I looked over at my brother and saw such pure joy on his face that it brought tears to my eyes. I love my brother, and it makes my heart happy to know he loves me too, and to know that we are actually a lot alike.

exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding

 I lost my big sister to breast cancer when she was one week short of her 37th birthday. Diagnosed at 34, with 3 little boys under the age of 7, she fought valiantly for almost two years.  The doctors subjected her to chemotherapy, radiation, radical surgery and even experimental treatments in an effort to save her life, but none of it was enough to conquer this dreadful disease. She was not only my sister, but my closest friend, my confidant, and my ally. The void in my life since her passing will never be filled, and I grow more firmly convinced of this fact with each passing year.

Several years after my sister's untimely death, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and it was quite advanced, but she was lucky enough to have a caring surgeon and an even more caring oncologist who believed a vibrant 71-year-old should be treated as aggressively as a young woman with children. Though it had been little more than ten years between my sister's passing and my mom's diagnosis, the advances in treatment during that interim were profound. Now 12 years after her own diagnosis, my mom is still around to give me grief.

An acquaintance of mine, having just found out about my family history, was quite amazed I hadn't had genetic testing done to see if I carry either of the breast cancer genes. Having one first-degree relative with the disease increased my risk by a sizable amount, but two first-degree relatives with breast cancer raised my likelihood of getting breast cancer into the stratospheric range. I just changed primary care physicians a couple of months ago, and during my establishing visit, mentioned the possibility of genetic testing. He concurred, and next thing I knew, I was having multiple vials of blood siphoned off. Of course, it couldn't be that simple. The lab had only sent 2 samples for genetic testing in the past SIX years, so there were many hoops to be jumped through, not the least of which was a denial by my insurance. This was to be expected; it's not a common test, and at $3500, is not something any insurance company is going to be ecstatic about paying. But after an appeal came a begrudging approval when my new doctor enumerated my rather lengthy list of risk factors.

Thus commenced "The Wait." I had already mentally prepared myself for the very real possibility I carry either BRCA1 or BRCA2, and had already formulated a plan of action. So I set about carrying on with my very busy life and tried to shelve any nagging worries about the test, and I was almost successful. I actually went several days without giving it more than a passing thought, and when I did think about it, I realized that I was being as proactive as was reasonable.

So when my phone rang at work last week, and the caller ID showed my doctor's number, I answered with a shaking hand, realizing 6 weeks had passed and this was most likely the call I had been waiting for. Without much preamble, they told me my results were back, and I DO NOT carry either breast cancer gene. My relief was so profound, my knees literally buckled, and I had to catch myself. To finally have an answer to a fear that has been gnawing at the back of my brain for so long ... I can't put it into words. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I  was able to exhale all the fear and dread I'd been holding onto for so long.

I can't change the past. No matter how many times I've cried or prayed or begged, my sister is never coming back. But I can be here for her 3 dear sons, as they marry and start families of their own. And I can keep her memory alive in their hearts, as she is in mine.