White Lemonade

It’s been a wild month. When I posted Paradise Found and Lost, I had no idea that it would spark a winter wildfire of love, support, and giving. The piece was originally intended as a “for your eyes only” essay to be shared with the writers group to which I belong, and nothing more. After some contemplation, hesitation, and even trepidation, I decided to post it online, much to the dismay of Elizabeth, my wife. She is not a fan of the spotlight.

Oops…

Soon after the essay went live, offers to stand vigil in our yard popped up in the form of messages, comments, and emails. Cookies, cupcakes, and neighbors began appearing on our front porch, and text messages from numbers I didn’t recognize vowing support and love began to drain my phone’s battery. My father-in-law took me to lunch (just the two of us, for the first time ever) and shared with me his own experience with harassment, and offered his absolute support for my family. It felt good to be cared for by so many, and I was confident that my essay would have a lasting impact on the state of our trees, yard, windows, and heart.

We were papered a week later, and it was maddening. I felt like a fool for having believed that our paradise could be so easily restored. The following day passed in anger, and I struggled to believe that everything we had moved to Oakley for hadn’t slipped through our fingers forever. The bitterness began to consume me, and I welcomed it, in spite of knowing from past experience what it would do to me.

And then remembered the example of a man named Joe, whose son Jadin killed himself after being bullied. Joe had every understandable right to lash out, seek revenge, and allow bitterness to corrode his soul. Instead, Joe decided to take the high road (literally), and he began walking across the country to raise awareness of bullying and its effects on others. Along the way he told Jadin’s story to anyone who would listen. Many people did, and Joe changed, even saved lives.

Joe died while walking his way onto my short list of heroes; he was struck and killed on the side of the road in Colorado.

The example of Joe turning something far more bitter than lemons into sweet and inspiring lemonade smacked me in the chest in a way that very few things do, and I felt compelled to decide how I would react to what we had been going through. An idea evolved, and I invited the people of the Kamas Valley to bring toilet paper into our home and get to know us.

1,135 rolls (and counting) later, I’m still working to become more like Joe.

The rolls (and puns) began piling up beneath our Christmas tree, and before long we had enough for Solomon (12) to stack up in doorways, block hallways, and build little forts in the living room. It was fun, it was encouraging, and it was progress. My heart started to soften again, and I found myself looking out our back windows and loving the view again. Every time the doorbell rang, my wife and kids would look at me and say, “that’s for you,” as if they thought it foolhardy of me to invite strangers bearing toilet paper into our home. Before long, however, they too began to anticipate the ringing of the doorbell, the additions to the growing pile, and the strangers that would become friends.

Paper began arriving from around the country. Old friends from past lives and neighborhoods could not help themselves, and they sent their love and support along with rolls and rolls of the white stuff. Much to my surprise, people we didn’t even know drove through stormy weather (some more than once and from far away) to add to our pile of white lemonade.

That sweet, soft, massive pile of white will soon be gone, delivered to the Kamas Food Bank and distributed to those in need, but the sweet, soft, massive pile of support, service, and love will never leave, it will stay with my family forever. To thank those who gave is not enough; I will try to live my thanks in who I am and how I serve others following their example.

In addition to the paper contributions, we were blessed over the course of the 12 days leading up to Christmas with 24 days of gifts from two anonymous Santas. Each day we would wake to find some something special on our front step, and a separate daily scavenger hunt kept us wandering about town in search of the next gift and clue. Both Santas (and their helpers) made sure to include reminders that we were not only loved by, but also needed in the valley. Santas, you know who you are, and we are forever grateful for your kindness and love.

Elizabeth and I decided that we would not exchange gifts for Christmas this year. (She broke the rules and bought me some skis, and so I actually used them, which was for her a delightful gift in return.) At first I thought our decision to forgo giving each other gifts was a sign of us getting older and less interested in the magic of Christmas, but I now believe that it was more a sign that we are starting to figure out how this whole Christmas thing works, and what it is all about.

You have all had a hand in that.

And so I extend again my thanks to the good people of not only the Kamas Valley but the world who gave, supported, reached out, cared, and shared.

Because of you it truly has been a Merry, white, (and punny) Christmas.

For more information about Joe and Jadin, see http://joeswalkforchange.org

West 4 Independence

"I think I could do this," I whispered.

"I was just thinking the same thing..." Ella replied, her own voice barely audible.

I reached out and took her hand in mine. My eyes wandered across open fields, up mountains, and  towards the big blue sky.

This simple exchange occurred two years ago this week, while driving through Eastern Utah on our way to spend a few days with Ella's family at Bear Lake. We had already spent a few days in Oakley, relaxing at the family cabin. You wouldn't think that surrounding ourselves with two dozen or so nieces and nephews would be a relaxing enterprise, and in the past it hadn't been for me. But that year I had embraced it, and found the experience to be a restful one. We had spent the evening of Independence Day at the Oakley Rodeo, where we watched the bucking, riding, roping, and when it was over, the colorful flashing of fireworks overhead.

I searched my memory for a more patriotic 4th of July but could not find one.

Bear Lake was sunny, hot, and metamorphic. I had brought the first half of a manuscript that I was working on, and it was passed around to brothers and sisters-in law. A discussion ensued one afternoon, as we sat in the sun and watched the kid-cousins playing in the water. Common ground was uncovered, and for the first time in an eighteen-year marriage I felt kinship with Ella's family.

I flew home two days later, leaving Ella and the kids to stay in Utah for a couple more weeks. During that time the cell towers between us crackled and sparked with excitement as Ella and I discussed our plans to move west. It was unreal; we were the last people on the list of those destined to move to Utah. We had long ago fallen in step with those bent on stereotyping, ranting, and speculating when it came to “Utards.”

By the time Ella and the kids were home, my excitement had melted in the hot humid air of New Hampshire. We would not be moving; we ran a successful business, lived in a nice home, enjoyed the company of good friends, and loved our sweet little town in spite of its growing pains and ever-increasing tax burden. Wasn’t the thought to move west just a knee-jerk reaction to a restful vacation? Would living in Utah be as wonderful as visiting had been? I imagined my doubts until they grew into the joy-killing weeds of reality. I informed the Salt Lake City based company that was eager to meet me that we were no longer seeking an immediate move to Utah. Ella and the kids were deflated.

Summer ended, school started, and happiness struggled. We pushed our way through the autumn months in slow motion, still hoping for a reasonable end to the perfect storm of emotions that had raged since Jared’s suicide two years earlier. I wrote sporadically, never imagining that I would actually finish my account of the troubled relationship I had shared with my little brother, and the shame that I felt at having abandoned him whenever he had truly needed me. I longed for a sweeping, cleansing change, but fear and the unknown stood in the way. Driving the winding, canopied roads of New England became a metaphor for life; I couldn’t see where I was going.

An unexpected email, a couple of phone calls, and a flight to Salt Lake City later that winter seemed (at first) to confirm my doubts. I had come to meet with that same interested company on their dime, but upon entering their office I knew in an instant that it wasn’t to be. I threw the interview and left the building. Looking up at the grey layer of winter smog, I felt depressed, lost, and let down.

And then I accepted a ride up to Summit County. There the sky was blue, the sun was bright, and the mountain air was clean. Snow covered the ground, but I was warm. It felt like home. I called Ella and told her that yes, we could do it, but it would have to be at 6500 ft.

Soon our house in New Hampshire was on the market, and so was my business. Both sold with little trouble, each to good friends looking for their own sweeping, cleansing change. Ella flew west, and after a couple of days searching around the valley, she found the house and neighborhood that had been waiting for us.

We moved in just before the 4^th of July, one long and winding year after that moment of clarity we had shared in the car. One of the first things we did after unloading the truck was to buy tickets for the Oakley Rodeo. As it began, several girls rode into the arena on horseback carrying the Stars and Stripes. The crowd went wild as the flags fluttered and a song about “Home” began to play over the loudspeakers.

One year later.

Ella has made our home comfortable and happy, and she has worked hard while I have scribbled. When she goes missing I know to look for her on the back deck, where she is sure to be sitting on the couch swing, staring up at the mountains with a smile on her lips. The kids have settled in; they’ve made new friends, tried new things, and admit to loving it here.

My book is finished. People love it, and I refuse to check sales figures. I like to drive through Summit County; out here I can see where I am going.

I am doing this; we are doing this.