Creating Value By Choosing -Satre

He’s got it easier than me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining and am not implying that he doesn’t miss me like I miss him- I am just being factual about the circumstances. On July 3rd I returned home to my apartment after a lonely drive from the westisde of Washington with barely enough time to do laundry for work the next day. I said goodbye to him this day for the second time, the more official time, just as he was about to embark on his new life in Oregon. When he moved back home at the close of his two internships in Pullman there were many tears for that first goodbye, but the second goodbye just felt different. It hurt worse. And as a result, when I returned to my apartment, he was everywhere. In lamest terms it felt like an abrupt breakup without any logic or that he had died. I still held my feelings for him staring at our pictures on my wall but yet here I was- a blubbering pathetic mess. And I use the word pathetic intentionally because that was exactly what it was. Haha!

And yes. He was everywhere. 

For hours I was confused about how my toilet paper had multiplied underneath my bathroom sink until I remembered the groceries that were in my car. Not only had he unloaded my car for me but he also must have put it all away! There were coins on my floor; coins which must have belonged to him. I am still picking up these coins daily as they enjoy hiding in my 70’s style light puke green shag carpet. Little reminders of him. I even observed how my desk chair was swiveled towards the kitchen; the direction away from my desk, one which I never sit and face. Clear as day, I saw him sitting in my desk chair talking to me while I was in the kitchen making us turkey sandwiches for the drive to the westside. I remember how I was slicing the cheddar, chuckling at my own story as I tried to verbatimly retell the incident talking to him over my right shoulder. I’m almost positive I concluded that obnoxiously long tid-bit with my usual phrase,

“Okay, now you tell a story” as a bashfully pretend like I didn’t ramble for an obnoxious amount of time. I can literally see him try to smile at my silliness as he munches away at the cookies my mom had given him that day.

But see what I mean about the dead person thing?

I miss him. And he does have it easier. He's off in new places doing exciting new things without the ghost of me bringing up old memories in familiar places.

It’s a crazy thing, this life. So much to experience, to live through, to process. And sometimes it’s wasy too tiring. I feel like that is all I’ve been doing lately. All this summer. Just processing.

Processing my undergraduate degree journey- where I’ve come, where I’m going. Processing working a full-time job- thankful I have one but greedy of my days off. Processing my worth- how I am treated and why I let people pull me down. Processing my lifestyle habbits- finding something stable and giving myself enough “me time.” Processing the long distance relationship lurking in the future without knowing when where or how.

It’s all a transition, or a constant process. And at the beginning of the summer I was not okay with this limbo, this gray area. I found myself destructive with negative thoughts as I was anxious of the summer zooming by.

Ah, but the processing has ended and the transition has passed. My boyfriend is now safely a resident of Oregon, my jobs are more laid out, and my fall schedule has lightened a bit… I am finally at ease. I started to worry about myself as my codependence on How I Met Your Mother grew stronger and stronger each day as I cried with Lilly left Marshal, when Ted was left at the alter, when Marshal’s dad died, and when Barney dumped Nora for Robin and how Robin was supposed to dump her boyfriend for Barney but didn’t and….. well anyway. You get the picture. I was living bicariously through Marshal and Lilly’s relationship. Do note, I started watching HIMYM after the Tony’s this year (because Neill Patrick Harris is a beast) and yesterday I watched the last episode of Season 7. Yeah, like I said PATHETIC and quite frankly, I don’t mess around. (I may or may not have stolen Lilly’s idea of putting Marshal’s shirt over a body pillow… but I’m not talking to it haha.)

After all this processing and getting over the stage of hating all couples who do live in the same area code and completely take it for granted, I was able to sit down and knock out some positives. During those four days when I felt like the world would not go on as it did when he lived 8 miles away- I discovered all of the perks to these 281 miles lying between us.

1. I don’t have to shave my legs--- ever.

2. No makeup, less blemish potentials.

3. Yoga pants for days. (Never knew I could wear yoga pants to the bar and still get hit on, but hey! That’s Moscow for ya…)

4. Fun packages via snail mail…

5. Snapchat for days. Best invention ever. We can send goofy faces and what he ate that day without racking up my telephone bill.

6. The obvious: More time to myself.

7. Less sweet temptations. (Yes, Ian- you have one of the sweetest sweet tooths I have ever seen!)

8. Working more: Whether it is at Bclub, RTOP, at the gym, writing… there’s more productivity going on.

9. I’m officially dating not only an educated man but also am employed Account Executive! (Insert picture of Marshal in his suit here)

10. No matter how many visits we will have to have over the days to come, I will consistently get the “sparkle stage” butterflies in my stomach every time I am about to see him again. It’s inevitable.

And the best part?

We didn’t need this long distance to make us magically realize how much we mean to each other. So after all my venting ultimately… this long distance really has got nothing on us. We have equal chase-age and whiney texts of “pay attention to me” and plenty of random pictures send to one another to make even the hopeless romantic super nausea from cuteness. So even thought this ghost of Ian lives in my apartment making this long distance harder on me- I’d still choose him. I’d still choose him over all the other Barneys on the street. (ha, see what I did there?)

Love you.

Disclaimer: Ian loves it when I write and jokingly pokes “when are you going to write something about me?” In the past the only thing I’ve really written about him involved a lengthy description about how he devours his food. Yeah, not too glamorous. At least he still likes me! So in honor of his birthday this Saturday I wanted to blog this journal entry for him, one I written at the beginning of the summer.

Climb Mountains

Climb Mountains- not so the world can see you, but so you can see the world. 

It's funny where inspiration comes from. 

For a good while I was getting my motivation from my kids at work who looked up to me and really, they kept me in line. Each summer for the camps I looked forward to each week's mashup of students to see what script and songs we could throw together to fit each individual's need. It was an challenge and a joy every time, each moment sticking with me and every performance kept getting better. 

But this year I need to find my inspiration elsewhere.

And quite frankly, this project came out of nowhere.

I have always enjoyed taking pictures. I am that one annoying friend at a party that will whip at my phone, demand a group picture, click profousouly a thousand times, and then continue to take candids the rest of the  night. Even though my friends are relentless with their groaning for this ritual of mine, behind closed doors or by a discreet text they kindly ask, "Uh, so can you send me those pictures from last night?" 

Bahahahaha. 

Though, I totally get how they don't want me to capture the moment when we all walk downstairs and find Cincinnati passed out on the floor. Photo cred actually belongs to Nic in this instance. 

 But then there are these moments...

...That are so worth capturing.

I realized something.
Besides the mild obsession, in general, I enjoy taking pictures of people.
Probably in high school I had considered being a photographer as a career (proof being how I forced Genia to pose for me around my house and neighborhood sometimes making her wear certain items of clothing... kind of like dressup, right?!) but I think I doubted myself due to the lack of versatility.
I only like taking pictures of people. Why this is so, I'm still trying to figure out. It could be my belief that nature is so beautiful and breath taking in the actual moment that a picture can't do the real thing justice. Very similar to being at a concert. I went to Pentatonix and Tegan and Sara this last year and even tho I did record some vids, it was more valuable to soak in the moment and pass up on technology. The experience cannot be recreated for me. I still find value in perhaps, recording history... for instance, I have a picture of my family's house for every season... but for fun and enjoyment? Ain't quite my cup of tea.


However, a friend came to me that was a sweet reminder of a part of myself that I haven't spent time with in a while.
He wanted more head shots and although I was hesitant with my rusty skills I was eager to take a whack at it. Four mosquito bites later, voila! It was a learning experience for both of us. Him being in front of the camera and me being honest and demanding with what I want to see. Hopefully before he takes off we will continue this project and I'll see where it takes me. Here's a little peak at what we got.

It's funny. Money really wasn't an issue. In my mind, I am not a professional and taking pictures is a hobby, a favorite pass time. Even after expressing this endeavor to my parents my dad responded, almost verbatim what Basze said,

"But don't you want to get paid for a hobby?"

I guess if there's anything I am stubborn about in life-- it's not faking it. Friends, relationships, work, school, music... waste of time. I respect titles, so I won't claim to have one until I work my ass off for them. So, accepting payment for something fun when I am not experienced seems very wrong. I don't know the details of what I am doing I just know what I think looks good and I go for it. I milk it. And I enjoy it. Getting paid to dink around on my nikon would be weird. For some reason I couldn't put that notion into words as he tried to persuade me to state a fee of some kind. 

But in the end, I think I'm getting more out of this project than he is. 

"The person that you will spend the most time with in your life is yourself, so you better try to make yourself as interesting as possible."

"it must be hell inside your head" -L.Hofstadter

I arrive home, throw my keys on the chair and set the groceries on the table as I purposely catch his eye. He stands one foot in the kitchen and one foot in the living room, not a difficult feat in my tiny one-bedroom apartment, and he instantly reads my ashamed distraught stricken body language,

“Uhh, what’s up?"

“I did something bad.”

His stare hardens but remains concerned with the spatula frozen in his hand forgetting about dinner as he waits in anticipation of my ‘bad’ action. His logic:

“Did you hit something?”

My smile cracks through since he’s the one with the most recent driving record these last couple of months but I cave and say,

“Nooo…

…I bought chocolate.”

Relief sweeps over him as I sink into the couch arm-crossed and pouty. He sits beside with his arms wrapped around my shoulders, he kisses my cheek.

“But that’s a good thing!”

He was genuinely excited to see the sweets I bought even though my errands only included getting my prescription from Walgreens and returning the Big Bang disc we just finished watching. I totally indulged, went into Hastings rented the next two discs we needed (almost done with season five- yikes!) and then found myself at the candy aisle. Just to check out, Hastings pretty much stuffs the candy down your throat for you, you’re just still expected to pay the ridiculous three bucks for a Snickers.  But today I was on a mission and that mission was chocolate. So I got Hersey’s Cookies and Crème for me, king size Reese’s for him, and bite-size Kit-Kat’s for the both of us. Something just felt disgusting:

I guess for the most part, most of my unhealthy pleasures (besides my free meals at bclub!) are given to me. I rarely have to purchase something that tastes like heaven with the consequence of a kajillion calories. Okay, another lie. There is the occasion Taco Bell and unfortunately, wine is loaded with calories.

Whatever, you get the point.

It’s post finals week, I’ve been jolted into full-time at work and let’s just say I’m mentally and physically recovering. A little bit of my pride at work (because I’m sorry I swear I heard huzzafuhta which sounds nothing like turkado! Ugh, breathe…) and my feet screaming at me from being vertical all day. Regardless, I just wanted chocolate.

As I approached the check out stand I took note of the other customers surrounding me, the employees, and any living soul that could possibly be judging me, right? Everyone does this every once and a while. Which demonstrates who truly ashamed I was of this purchase… but I was still confident in my purchase, just dreading the small talk. Like really, what kind of conversation starters?

“Bad day?” ----- *Glare

“Girls night?” 

----- *Cries, “My best friends live miles away and I haven’t seen them in months.” 

(FACT- I did accidently start crying on the boyfriend after he complimented my dress. I remembered how Chantel wore it last and the statement made me miss her. But he didn’t know that tidbit… and as a result, I looked like that crazy girlfriend that cries over compliments. Ooops! To make is better I think that was the first time I cried in front of him …)   

ANYWAY, I was dreading awkward small talk and as his cologne crept across the counter and assaulted my senses, I handed him my Hastings card, thankful that at least I didn’t have any late fees.

“Did you see the 80 cents rack? I definitely bought a few on my lunch break.” 

He was referencing another candy aisle that apparently, I don’t imagine how, I didn’t see. I was so astonished, at his comment not the cheap price, that I bought a 1000 Grand even though I had no desire to actually eat it. His response couldn’t have been more perfect; it kinda brought me back to earth.

We humans are silly.

I usually am not one who is quick to judge but I still sometimes try to get into the heads of others when quite frankly, it’s impossible. And not worth it.  But I was so worn down from the semester and work that my thoughts were eating me alive. This guy was a great reminder for me to come out of my head, back to real life, and to continue giving zero fucks about the thoughts of others. If I want to eat chocolate, I’m going to eat chocolate, damnit! 

Those who mind don’t matter and the ones that matter don’t mind.

Needless to say, Ian also thoroughly enjoyed the 1000 Grand and I'm pretty sure it barely took 24 hours to consume all of this chocolate purchase. 

how the other half lives

       how the other half lives

            bogota blackberry, fruit sangria, black satin, ski teal, espresso,  second honeymoon, and elephantastic pink all wiggle at the end of their toes, taunting me, flexing their beauty, glistening in dedication. a good chunk of time and patience goes into these ten centimeter masterpieces; precious time being something I don’t contain.

            girls being how girls are, I too own a collection of petite painting polishes with various colors even more daring such as silent mauve, big apple red, bring on the bling, mojito madness, and very cranberry. but yet, lonesome they remain in a box, dusty untouched on the highest shelf in the farthest corner of a closet I hardly ever open.

            but I long to. I long for the days when my biggest decision was deliberated while inspecting my hair in the mirror wondering if there’s any way to salvage it. I long to take the time to blow a calm breeze on my wet toenails, not really in a hurry but more cautious of smudging the surface with my absentmindedness. I long for days of sleeping in past seven, having the time to talk to the birds in the morning. to share glances with myself in the mirror so lines or dark circles don’t surprise me when I catch my reflection at the corner of my eye.

            I long to live. I long to breathe. to enjoy moments instead of stressing over deadlines and success promising myself, “…just one more week. just one more week, then you’ll have time to..”

            …time to do what? to laugh? to cry? to call your best friend whom you haven’t spoken to in months, to jog off your winter pounds, to go to the eye doctor, to pay rent, to do you laundry you haven’t touched in eons, to call your mom on her birthday, to stop by your dad’s office to just say hi and not ask for something for once, to hug your boyfriend for an extended duration, to squeeze your kitty one more time before passing out from exhaustion.

            to celebrate life.

but instead, all I can do is go through the motions and complete the tasks that are expected of me.

            so I remain envious, almost bitter at the bright obnoxious colors glimmering just to spite me, coaxing me saying, you don’t have time--

                                                            leaving me to wonder: which is truly living? having the time to pamper the tips of my toes or being so caught up in furthering my education, contributing to society, and bettering my future that ironically, I ignore myself. I ignore crucial components of life that are essential for functioning properly. Who is Truly Living?

The Driver's Ed Seven Second Rule

Meredith Stone

The Driver’s Ed Seven Seconds Rule

          I remember hearing sirens. Shrieking with urgency, I was alone with my thoughts emerged in darkness trying  to remember the whirls of white amongst both sides of me, racing past as we kissed Grandma’s warm rosy cheeks goodbye that morning. I was alarmingly calm, breathing deeply as the sirens shifted from their obnoxious tri-tones to a harmonious melody drifting quietly away. I fell further into the darkness as I heard him say, “But it’s my turn to ride shot gun…but it’s my turn to ride shot gun… but it’s my turn…”

          My mother’s tense words attempt to console me for her touch was helpless. I couldn’t feel her arms embrace me, her hand grasping mine, her warmth against my skin. My eyes were wide open and engaged but I couldn’t see anything. The darkness, too welcoming to push through, too caught off guard to react; I remained content in this unknown.

          I wake bound in a stale room, filled with blinding whites, plastic trays, and metal objects. Curious, I look to the left of my bed, gently lift my hand and run my finger tips across the tray next to where I lay. I pull it towards me. Indents of circles, a straw, and a paper cup adorn the surface as I discover a new lever to evaluate under the tray. With a little resistance, I tug and a white arm pops out with the shiny object of them all on the end. I gaze into the mirror, taking in this foreign girl that stares back. I don’t say a word. No gasp, no screaming, no tears, no burning questions. I am distracted by the sensation of someone’s eyes watching me as I am startled, flip my head to the right but am instantly settled when her eyes meet mine. I hadn’t noticed my mother dozing off in the recliner beside me, worrying and wondering when her little eight-year-old daughter would wake up.

          And I did. I left the warm darkness and returned to my family’s winter wonderland disaster. I returned to my hospital bed with a teddy bear in each arm, flowers on the window sill, and the warm touch of my mom’s freckled hand stroking the hair off my forehead and tucking it behind my ear. I created the film loop of my father pulling me out of the front seat, splattered in my blood, holding my head together as their world erupted in chaotic what-ifs and mine became still in darkness. I grew up in that moment, silently contemplative before speaking, before screaming at the mirror wondering who did this to me, before tears stream down my face at the hideous caterpillar stitched onto my face. Instead I think; leaving my emotions at the way side as my boisterous older brother paces the hall, muttering “I was the one who let her ride shot gun… I shouldn’t have let her…”

          I feel a tap on my shoulder as I turn around in my desk to face a big-eyed rebellious brunette who sits behind me. We’re juniors in high school and our English teacher Mr. Hill hasn’t begun class yet.

          “I think you still have a pillow crease imprint on your forehead!” she giggles pointing at my scar. I calmly cringe, suffocating my real emotions as I think, mull over, analyze before speaking, before screaming, before slapping her naïve smile off her face.

          I let the silence hang in the air as I swivel back around. Even without the darkness, I am at peace with my thoughts, just thankful to just be alive.  

Identity

Identity: the fact of being who or what a person or thing is. The condition of being oneself or itself and not another. 

Sometimes you don't know how lost you are until you are found. I myself was enjoying the scenic route as I wandered carelessly about, but it was unbeknownst to me how my path had detoured... until I found myself back where it all started. The signs on the road saying "WTF" definitely didn't catch my attention and instead gave me the completely wrong idea.

All that was felt but never spoken came tumbling to my feet when my dad said, "You know, if you really wanted to, you could transfer back."

What liberation. Really, could I? Who cares about pride, you live as you learn so what if leaving were a mistake? If music should still be a part of my undergraduate career then am I at the right place? However, Sidhartha taught me well how we humans easily believe that by doing one thing or buying something will alleviate suffering. (ex. you think buying that DVD will somehow encourage you to work out more, when really the change must come from within you). But once we obtain said object, the suffering still exists unless we face the pain head on and pull out a yoga mat. 

So transferring back will not make me happy. I miss the moments and the people but neither of them will be there if I returned. The memories cannot be relived, peers have graduated moved on, sisters have left, and my closest friends have stronger bonds with people who are strangers to me. Returning would not be the same. So uh, why did my dad's proposition excite me?

I need to get out of Moscow.

When my environmental science lab took a field trip to Granite Dam I got way too giddy for an education tour trip. As much as I love my hometown that trip confirmed it. I think I've outgrown this place. Horribly.

Along with that, I just need to graduate. My new short term goal is to just graduate and leave. I'm ready to start that wonderful thing called life and while I love school... I feel the pressures of academics and part-time jobs is to "just get by" of to "just be okay". I'm really to live a little here.

But I'm here for a reason. I left Pocatello for a reason, and I believe that everything does happen for a reason so there's no point in resisting the change. So, I'm at peace with being here in Moscow, for the time being. 

Ugh.

But I've been lost for so many reasons besides that. My dad's proposition stirred another thought of my unhappiness. I have been taking voice lessons for the past ten years of my life and abruptly, I up and quit. I don't like using that word, but here it really does fit. I quit singing. Almost altogether if it wasn't for the shows I was participating in... but even then it wasn't enough. It was kinda like missing my right ear, or arm... or something. It sucks, and kinda painful. Within my group of friends I was always the one with the voice of the music major... and not my identity has been comprised.

Bitter? Yeah, probably a little. At whom or what I'm not quite sure and life is funny that way, but placing blame isn't important compared to deciding where to go from here.

haha, so here I am! More involved with the theatre than ever and taking acting and dancing classes because quite frankly, I don't need a degree to do what I enjoy. I can seek out training anywhere. And after a long painful year without lessons, I'm back to regular weekly lessons with Kelli. Which is just as big of an adventure for her as it is for me... since I am uber rusty and she's not used to me being a high soprano. (Wow, life changes fast.) And overall, I'm really excited to sing new pieces, continue classical, and embark on some foreign musical theatre healthy-belting...

Perhaps I needed this break form singing to show myself how strongly I have always identified with it. The other day when I was at work, one of the servers who I have bonded with a lot recently, flattered me by surprise by asking me this random question, "Does it bother you to hear people sing when they totally don't know what they're doing?" I don't think she knew how much I appreciated her comment because it reassured me that even though my path has switched directions, I am still who I am... and the music bleeds through no matter what. Even with my new family at work, I am now seen as the singer (alongside Kelli of course). I've invested so much of my life into singing, and still do, that I can't let anyone compromise my passion towards it. And better yet, I'm studying the stuff I want to and learning what I need to... to better myself as a vocalist and performer for the life I believe I am meant to live and less confined to the degree that everything thinks I should pursue. 

My voice is my own.

Where you invest your love, you invest your life. 

-Mumford and Sons

Some memories from freshman year. <3 i="">

Brittany

Carson and Casey trying on my clothes in my dorm room hahah

Lakota and I at the Jason Aldean concert

(That face it all about Luke Bryan's hips!)

uh, yah. this happened.

me and Shelby!

Little Lou

Keekeyoohkee!

Megan and I for Women's choir

he hasn't changed a bit...

Spencer and Keanne lol....

Wonderfully Ordinary

**This is a long piece. Reaches 6 pages in Microsoft Word. This is my narrative essay for my English 208 class. The prompt was to write about a kitchen. I thought this was such a dull topic but after some work, I really enjoyed this topic and the theme that grew out of it. 

Wonderfully Ordinary

            After walking between crowds of families with crying children, who are also tired from the busiest of holiday travels, we finally reach the end of the maze. We sling our suitcases into the trunk of a car, too fancy to be our own, and drive the rest of the way to our final destination. Running up the concrete steps, sliding across the icy porch, I fling open the white creaky screen door.  Through the foggy glass on the door, I could see lights of blue, orange, red, and yellow shining from the Christmas tree in the living room. I excitedly knock on my grandparents’ front door as my dad trudges behind, carrying as much luggage as he can in one haul. Out of breath, he gently pushes me aside as he always did during my younger years, turns the knob, and opens the door, releasing the warmth into the winter chilled night. I now understand why this event occurred every year: either my grandparents wouldn’t have been able to hear my light rat-a-tap-taps over the Seahawks’ game, or my father didn’t feel like he had to wait to be invited into the home he himself grew up in.

            More so now than ever, I savor the memory I create when I imagine my father during his college years. A full head of thick dark brown hair, long and quite reminiscent the Beatles which is ironic since I know he listened to this band back then. His furrowing eyebrows, the ones he gave me and the same he inherited from his father, are loosened as he smiles at the sarcastic comment his mother makes. I imagine my grandmother is scrubbing the dishes from that morning while this conversation is unfolding. They both chuckle together as my father nervously attempts to bring up a new topic. Gracefully, he hops onto the kitchen counter, creating a loud crack against the bottom cupboard door as the heel of his tennies kick it. Despite the magnitude of what he wants to say, his voice sounds elated.

            “I just asked her to marry me” he said. My grandmother’s stern pursued lips break into a smile.

            “Are you talking about Debbie?” she raises her eyebrows slightly, glancing up for a moment even though she already knows the answer. He too smiles as he reaches to his left, pulls the wooden lever of the M&M dispenser and puts his other hand underneath to catch the falling chocolates. He pops the handful in his mouth, crunching delightfully.

            “Of course I’m talking about Debbie.”

            “You have our approval!” My grandpa chirps in from the head of the kitchen table, his back still towards the other two for he is unable to take his eyes off the Perry Mason show.

            “Dad, quite frankly, I don’t need your approval.” My father snaps back with the sarcastic tongue that seamlessly passes from generation to generation. My grandpa turns around and he too, is infected by the joyous news.

            “This is very true. You don’t need our approval. Not at all.” I wasn’t alive for this event, or to be more exact I wasn’t even thought of, but my mother shared this memory with me, just like my grandma had shared it with her.

            There were wonderful moments in my grandparents’ kitchen. The kitchen itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary and the layout seemed typical; the main entrance to the house, the creaking stairs to the basement immediately on your left, a table with three chairs and a television on top, a telephone with a curly cord hanging on the wall with cat food bowls underneath it on the floor, a window above the sink, and a doorway into the living room. The room itself smelled of time passing, knowing the floors have endured many footsteps, the burning coils have cooked many entrées, and the cupboards have held many plates. In crevices where the wall meets the linoleum there is irremovable mildew, dirt and grime you don’t notice at first but sense with a house this old. The static hum from the television that is never off fills the space with cheery tunes wishing one and all a merry Christmas and briefly convulses as my grandma flips back to the football game, she despises commercials. She lets out a quick hoot as she tosses the remote onto the kitchen table because she’s thrilled to watch quarterback Warren Moon play for a bit. I pretended to be happy too, even though back then I’m sure I didn’t know the difference between a quarterback and all the other jerseys on the green turf.

            By far, the best aspect of that kitchen was my grandpa cooking breakfast every morning. Color blind and legally blind for the last decade of his life, he gauged when the sausage and bacon were finished by the intensity of sizzling and the mugginess of smoke in the air. To this day, I love my sausage burnt and my bacon crisp; I can’t imagine having it any other way. I blame him for making breakfast my favorite meal of every day at any time.

            I admired my grandfather to great lengths so the smell of his cooking that trickled into the living room, Christmas morning, where we cousins always slept, was one of the most blissful memories I can remember. My older brother was more devoted than I was; always awake first, helping grandpa in the kitchen even if all he was doing was keeping him company, watching morning cartoons at the kitchen table. As soon as the eggs were scrambled and the toast ejected from the toaster, the smell reached my nostrils. My eyes opened instantly, remembering who was supposed to visit my stocking as I lay fast asleep. After the shredding of ribbons, fancy gift paper, and shrieking over my new Furby, I finally sat down for the best thing besides presents; Grandpa’s breakfast.

            During this time my family did not live in the Pacific Northwest. Having been born in Georgia and moving to California when I was the age of six, the only time I saw snow was here in Cheney, Washington. Out the kitchen window hung clumps of snow upon the bare branches. The snow seemed eager to drop as soon as the winter wind blew by and I imagined the trees playing a game of spatter to see who can hit the most humans who dared to walk underneath their limbs. Moisture gathered around the edges of the window as proof that I wanted to stay inside where I couldn’t see my breath hit the air. Better yet, I stayed inside with the warmth of baked Cheerios, pretzels, nuts, and Chex mix; my grandma’s holiday treat. In a brown bowl, I sorted past all the nuts and pretzels and kept my eyes focused on the best part of the mix: the Cheerios and the Chex mix. Eventually, if all of those were gone I’d settle for the pretzels until grandma made another fresh batch.

            One year, I remember finding my mother weeping in this kitchen. The long ginger braid down her back shook with each breath while finished wiping the dishes from our festive dinner. Once grandma was unable to cook and wash the dishes, my mother naturally took over. Generally she can’t sit still for two seconds so she loves to help out in any way she can, the kitchen being one of her specialties. I never thought anything of this notion until that Christmas. Unbeknownst to the cousins, occupied by our uncles and dads who were teaching us how to play poker just like grandpa, my Aunt Sue was slowly drifting away from our family. After a long night of heated words and verbal jabs between the adults, I heard my mother tell my dad who held her by the waist soothingly, “I always do everything around here…” Their backs were towards me but I could hear the tremble in her voice as she composed herself.

            Looking back most of my memories of Aunt Sue do consist of her sitting while my mom did all the work each holiday season. That year Aunt Sue broke our tradition, swooped up her children and took them and our Uncle Tom to her parents’ house instead of staying the night with us. This was our last Christmas altogether because Sue divorced my uncle the following year. However, life was still the same at my grandparents. Every Christmas Santa still came, grandpa still burned the sausage, and the merriment of family memories still lived on.  

            It was when my grandparents passed away that everything I knew changed. Now living within driving distance of Cheney, we visited my dad’s parents more often but more notably Christmas wasn’t Christmas unless it was up there with my grandparents. We never celebrated Christmas Eve elsewhere. Consequently, when my grandparents passed within the same year of one another I didn’t know where Christmas would feel right. Even though my uncle owns the house now, he installed a new kitchen downstairs and rents the upstairs. Since my grandparents live a couple of blocks away from Eastern Washington University, he easily makes revenue on students as tenants. The door my dad freely opened without invitation is no longer an option.

            Christmas to this day will still never be the same. I will never wake up to the smell of grandpa’s breakfast, eat my grandma’s fresh batch of Chex mix, or watch my mother stand at the sink in front of the window and wash the dishes. It seems both my parents and I salvaged what we could from that kitchen. The M&M dispenser my dad grew up with is now in my parents’ kitchen, my mom continues to cook the holiday Chex mix my grandma always did, and I work at a breakfast restaurant. Even though I am not allowed to cook the bacon to my liking, crisply burnt the way grandpa infamously did, somehow the scent of the restaurant kind of makes me feel like I’m at home.

            Sometimes I have the urge to return to my grandparents’ house, to their kitchen, just to revisit a sentiment of my childhood. But I can’t. And quite frankly, for my own sake, I shouldn’t. The people who made that ordinary kitchen special are no longer there. Their lives aren’t busy at work, doing their normal routines and I don’t know why my heart believes my brain when it thinks my grandparents are still living there, on the corner of North 9th and Cedar, and I just haven’t been up to visit them in awhile. Nonetheless, I have my memories. Whether they are the ones I experienced, the ones my parents lived through, or the ones my grandparents told from generation-to-generation, these memories are plenty for me and I will treasure them. I will carry these moments with me especially as I begin to live in my own house, understanding how so many wonderful memories can unfold in the most ordinary room; the kitchen.