Freedom Ride

On September 11, 2001 I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard of the attacks on our country.  I vividly remember a wave of fear washing over me as news kept pouring in about the horrific details of that day.  Those feelings lingered for quite some time as I wondered what our future would look like, as a nation and as a citizen.  How would the events of that terrible day erode the feeling of security and peace that I felt prior to the planes hitting the buildings?  It was an insecure time.

The years have gone by and the rawness of that day has dulled with time.  The lives lost and innocence of a nation something to be mourned and remembered.   However, the landscape of my life has only subtly changed.  

I make it a point to wear slip on shoes when I go through airport security because all shoes must be removed to take a cozy ride on a conveyor belt instead of being walked across the threshold of the security door.  

A very small price to pay.

I have to buy water in the terminal instead of carrying it through security.  The exorbitant price of H2O is not so pleasing (except for the vendor).  But still....

A very small price to pay.

Others sacrifice more while I can only send emails and offer prayers.  As my brothers have each served in Iraq and Afghanistan (Merrill is currently there), they miss birthdays, anniversaries, goodnight kisses and even births of their babies. 

A very large price to pay.  But one they do with honor, pride and dignity.

What can I do to celebrate the freedom I still enjoy that once seemed so fragile?  How can I show the bad guys that they didn't get what they came for?  

Well, I can do what I'm still blessed to be able to do......

ANYTHING I WANT!!!  (Well, within reason.  You know what I mean.)

This year on 9/11, we taught our boys to ride their bikes without training wheels.  A lifelong skill that will bring a sense of freedom, happiness, independence and plenty of Band-Aids and possible trips to the ER.  

Jay perched their trimmed down bikes on the top of a gently sloping grassy hill, whispered instructions and encouraging words in their ear and then pushed them off for their maiden voyage.

As predicted, Owen rode down the hill with his "game face" on and not a crash or a bobble to slow his descent.  Back up the hill he came for more, with only the slightest crack in his game face.....a smile.  

Also as predicted, Drew was nervous and required more detailed explanations than his younger brother.  I think Jay stopped just shy of explaining the physics of Newton's First Law, and an object's momentum and its relation to mass and velocity before he pushed Drew off to what I thought would be certain disaster.  I was pleasantly surprised when he didn't return to Jay missing all his shiny new front teeth with his bike in a twisted heap of blue metal.  As his confidence grew, so did his bike riding skills.

 

Predictable, yet again, was Kai's desire to be older than his little 2 year old self and ride a big boy bike like his brothers.  He felt so left out and embarrassed by his less than desirable transportation.

And a little bit unpredictable was the reaction of a very patient, proud and loving father who said that he felt like "a real father" for teaching a skill to his boys that will remain with them for their lifetime.  

Who was it that insisted, while I rolled my eyes, that we bring long pants for the boys to change into so that they wouldn't get scraped up knees?


A real father.


Who was it that proudly went to the store to buy new back tires to replace the worn out ones?


A real father.


Who was it that willingly gave up the ONLY day he has to tinker, relax and catch up on things so that he could instruct, encourage and cheer on his very sweaty but beaming boys?


A real father.

That is how we celebrated our freedom.  

Freedom=Sacrifice=Families=Happiness

Truck Men Part 1

I have known this moment would come for a few years now.  I've actually been waiting in silence for it.  Ever since we got rid of our truck to buy the mini-van I've been expecting to have the conversation we just recently had.  The "I-just-can't-live-another-day-without-a-truck" conversation that set in motion a whirlwind of phone calls to Colorado and three of my men-folk on a truck gathering journey.  (More on that later.)

There have been times in the past two years, sans truck, that I've looked over at Jay in a quiet moment and I see his face soften ever so subtly and a look of fond nostalgia washes over him.  He reaches for my hand and begins to speak....  

Expecting to hear him recollect the time we spent at the beach or the early days of our courtship or tell me one of the infinite reasons he loves me (or something of the like), I'm jolted to reality when I hear him say,  

"Remember that green and white truck we had?  Nothing has ever been as comfortable to travel in as that truck.  And remember that black truck that I had to start with the screw driver?  Man, those were great trucks.  I miss those trucks.  Maybe we should never have gotten rid of those trucks.  I had this truck once...."  

And then his eyes glaze over and he's detailing every truck that he has had and the ailments that each one possessed. Jay is lost in a dreamland of glow plugs and transmissions.

It is both endearing and baffling.  Me?  I like to own a really nice vehicle and get good use out of it and then send it on its way, never looking back.  Jay?  He loves 'em and leaves 'em, but not without first fixing and tinkering and caring deeply for them and then bringing them up years later with great affection mixed with a bit of longing, perhaps feeling a little guilty for ever letting them go in the first place.

Apparently this love of trucks has a genetic component.  While my father-in-law has passed down many enviable traits like honesty, compassion, work ethic and humor, he has also passed down this inclination for all things truck.  Big trucks, bigger trucks, fancy trucks and plain trucks.

As long as I've been a part of this great family, I have seen trucks grace the front of their eastern CO desert home as plentiful as the sandy earth upon which they sit.  And just as easily as a desert wind can blow, so can a new truck find its way to the Spencer abode.  

They have a good life there.  Hauling trailers with horses to a rodeo here or a ropin' there.  You just never know what kind of truck (or how many) will greet you as you drive up to the house.  And while the elder Spencer seems to have no particular brand favorite (Dodge, Chevy or Ford), it seems as though Jay has broken from the mold and become a "Ford Man."  

And so it is that I now find a giant red and gray 1996 Ford F350 PowerStroke parked in front of our not so large .5 car garage.  And it is a dually, no less.  That means it has 6 wheels.  Six. The more the merrier, I suppose?  We don't really need the additional 2 wheels but there they sit on my driveway, barely squeezing themselves between the bushes on one side and the grass on the other. 

Also, it has two fuel tanks.  Two.  (Please note that I said "fuel" and not "gas."  I've been thoroughly schooled throughout my 11 years of marriage in the ways of trucks.  Diesel is "fuel" not "gas."  I think I learned that on our second date, or something.)

As genes have a pesky way of sticking with the bloodline, I noticed a disturbing (yet sadly predictable) incident when Kai laid his eyes on our truck for the first time.  He walked up to the giant metal behemoth with awe, gingerly climbed onto the running boards and pressed his nose to the window.  Reverently he said, "Daddy, I yike your twuck."

After that declaration of solidarity and admiration, he gently stroked the side of the truck as if to say, "You're home now, buddy.  We'll take care of ya.  I've got your back."  

And with a parting pat, he walked into the house secure in his knowledge that he, too, is a truck man.  Third generation.  It runs deep. 

First Day of First Grade

It was thoroughly uneventful.  Boring, even.  It's a yearly gateway into gaining maturity and educational excellence and my oldest offspring was completely nonplussed.  I had no choice but to take my cue from him.

Drew got up at the same time he got up practically every day during the summer (7:30), ate his favorite breakfast of eggs on toast (but the toast is on the side) with ice water (don't ask, I'm just the cook), dressed in some new clothes and shiny new sneakers (that he can tie by himself!), and moseyed down the street to his bus stop with his school supplies in his backpack and Mama and brothers in tow.  

He jumped onto his bus and never even looked back.  I sort of just stood there wondering what an attentive and caring mother should do after her oldest just left the nest for the wide world of elementary school.  Meanwhile at the bus stop, another mother of a first grader "had a moment" with tears and shoulders heaving up and down and 50 pictures on her camera to remind her of each step her daughter took onto the bus.  

All I had was Owen crying because Kai poked him in the eye with a sword (someone's lawn flag) that he wrestled, like King Arthur, from the grass.  And Kai was helping himself to someone's leftover beverage, that he found hiding in the community's mailbox, while I was trying to listen to the bus driver's instructions to the waiting parents.  

But that is how it generally goes....Drew slips quietly through the events of life while I try to manage the chaos around me.  As much as I tried to make this day exciting and special, Drew approached it like he does most everything....like a seasoned veteran.  He's not bursting with confidence, shaking with fear or so excited he can't sit still.  He is just Drew.  Despite the fact that this is a new school for him, he just goes quietly about his business and deals with life as it comes.

And then he was home, with his best friend running after him to "ask him what he learned about."  He liked math the best, wants to buy lunch tomorrow, plans to introduce himself to a boy that looked like he could be a friend, and there were 3 kids in class who "weren't quality students."  He wasn't one of them.  


And that is that.

  

Peach Pickin'

In order to squeeze the last remaining drops of fun out of summer (and in an effort to assuage my guilt over being too tired to do much these past few months), I took the boys to Hartland Orchard to pick some peaches.  It was a hot and steamy affair, even at 9:30 in the morning.  And the bugs were so plentiful that we were picking more of those from our hair and eyes than we were picking peaches from the trees.  

Some boys had a knack for picking peaches with enough bruises and blemishes to rival Kai's forehead.

And another boy chose the peachful surroundings to do a little communing with nature.  

Hauling around their bags of fruit quickly lost its luster and I could tell we were in for a sprint and not a marathon at the orchard. 

But we got what we came for:  A little fresh air, beautiful scenery, a change of pace and 2 pecks of peaches and one peck of apples. 

Unfortunately for me, the peach skins are not the kind that like to go without a fight and the de-skinning process that was supposed to be a family affair looks like it will be me fighting the fuzzy orbs with a vegetable peeler.  It is a fitting farewell to my arduous summer.  I am looking anxiously ahead to our eventful fall!