Home for the Holidays (Whatever That Means)

The view at 10,000+ feet somewhere over Riverside County

The only annual holiday tradition I've managed to create and honor as an adult is traveling back to my parents' house for Christmas every December. My tradition is not unique. No, it appears I share this tradition with loads of other singletons. I see them waiting in the security line at LAX or stranded in Terminal D trying to balance Christmas gifts, laptops and giant coffee served in red cups.

What I've come to wonder is if these other singletons share my holiday experience--you know, after the ritual of traveling cross-country is complete. Do they also find their childhood bedroom has become a storage room / gift-wrapping station / gym / playroom for Princess the puppy? Do they--usually chatty with most any living being--find it hard to formulate conversation with childhood friends, now married and covered in the paraphernalia of children? Do they have an unusual desire for a large Manhattan with each and every meal?

Maybe it's just me.

At any rate, the holidays were lovely and rushed and full of dear ones. It was good to get back to Los Angeles with it's wild and apocalyptic sunsets. In LA, I feel a bit more myself, which is such a contradiction because if you saw me you'd never think I came from this particular city. I probably look way more Tulsa than LA.

For Polly

The day after Polly died, I took a drive up the 101 just like I had done with her several years ago when she was out for a visit. I headed north—past the sprawl of the city, past the strawberry fields in Ventura, and past the place where the highway signs start saying San Francisco. As I watched the roadside float by, I replayed that drive I had taken with Polly in my mind. That day we listened to Johnny Cash, we drank sweet frozen coffee drinks, and she remarked that people did an awful lot of sitting in their cars out in Los Angeles.

But no matter how hard you try, you can’t fully burn the memory of a person into your head. The edges fray, the colors fade and the memory dulls, so you start writing things down.

Because I couldn’t take drives with her at whim or see her in person very often, I started calling her on my way to work each morning. And during these calls, I would take notes.

My notes were usually quick, capturing just a snapshot of how Polly saw the world, a viewpoint that was unlike any other.

She said things like:

“They wanna get smart ass, you tell ‘em to call me!”

“I’m gonna go out to the shop and shiver and shake while I get my permanent.”

“You don’t want to be caught writing a bad check; that’s one thing I’ve never done.”

“I hadn’t done my hair, so I looked like a booger.”

“I saw the doctor yesterday. He come a bouncin’ in and said it looks fine, gave me a hug and then left. I tell ya: that’s gonna be an expensive hug.”

“She didn’t know her butt from a hole in the ground!”

“I know you’re smart because you’re mine.”

“We never knew we were poor. We were just happy.”

“I heard some man singing last night, singing ‘I’ll fly Away,’ and he was loud. I thought, ‘I’ll fly YOU away!’”

“You little heifer, you!”

“Well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

 If I couldn’t have Polly with me in sunny California, I’d sure try to have her in my pocket. Sometimes, when I needed a chuckle, I’d pull out my little notes and have a laugh, remembering her sass me from her chair.

As I took that drive, playing back memories of Polly, I thanked God that I had carved the space out in my life to create those memories. Spending time with a person changes you, if you’ll allow it. Their humor and outlook on life quietly weave themselves into the tapestry of your being, and before you know it you’re carrying around a tiny bit of that person with you.

No pictures or words or songs will ever capture how much Polly meant to each of us. Nothing can quite capture the ache we feel, standing together in the presence of her absence.

But we must continue living. We must completely invest ourselves in the present and in the people around us. And, in doing so, we will carry on those bits goodness Polly impressed upon each of us. Each time we serve one of her pound cakes or make someone laugh, we will see that we have been forever marked by Mrs. Pauline M. Regan.

Unless you act like a hussy, and then there ain’t no help for you.

A Visit From the Sibs

My sister and brother are coming to visit on Friday. I anticipate we will do the following:

*Please note this list is not conclusive, is likely to change and will certainly involve some bickering*


Eat at In N Out. My money is on a trip to In N Out right after they land. Bless the person who thought to put an In N Out right.by.the.airport!


Try some delish Mexican food.


Go see a movie, preferably at the Landmark. That's my fave place to see a flick in this town.


Eat at In N Out again. My brother will demand it.


Have a treat at Pinkberry. I will demand it.


I'll point out all the people who are crazy as hell in this town. (Too soon for the MJ poster? My friend Alex thinks so but not me!)


Smog. Crazy people. Food from trucks. I'll introduce the sibs to another LA institution.


On my wish list: sushi at Katsuya. DELISH!


In N Out. Again. Because we can't pass the In N Out by the airport and say no.


The beach. 'Nuff said.

Also, we plan on taking in a Dodger game. I would say that we are planning on taking in a U2 concert, but that got postponed to who-knows-when.

Wow. My list includes a lot of food. Good thing today was workout Wednesday!

Sometimes God Takes Song Requests

It is a rare moment when I can recite a poem or lyric, so when it comes to church hymns I usually get the chorus but not much else. There are three hymns I can almost sing entirely without the aid of a hymnal: “Amazing Grace” (an obvious choice), “Be Thou My Vision”, and a hymn I learned at university, “From the Depths of Woe.”

That last one, though a bit dark, is a cherished one for me even though I've not heard it since my school days. I had often thought of jotting down a request to hear that hymn and slipping it in the offering plate on Sunday, but I never did. Rather, I opted to periodically remind God that I'd really like to hear that song.

I finally heard my request this past Sunday, the 13th of September, the one-year anniversary of the weekend my sister fought an arduous battle with crystal meth.

I don’t recall the exact date my mother frantically drove from place to place desperately seeking help for my very ill sister. I don’t recall how my dad told me my sister had been admitted to the hospital. By phone? In person?

Instead I remember the grief of finding a charred spoon and crusty needle in my sister’s eyeglass case, the drive up Highway 14 to collect two Rubbermaid containers holding my sister’s worldly possessions, and the smell of cheap laundry detergent that permeated the house where she had been staying.

There was nothing to say, so I tried to provide my mom with a reservoir of energy and assistance. At one point, late in the night of that hellish first day, I was asked to buy new clothes for my sister. You see, a body expelling poison is not kind to the wardrobe. In the darkest of night, I headed to a nearby Wal-Mart. There, standing under blinding fluorescent lights, I stared vacantly at rows of bedroom slippers dyed pale shades of pinks and blues. I reached for pink, my sister’s favorite color, and allowed myself to ask the question I did not want answered: “What if, this time, she doesn’t win the fight.” I must have been a sight, crying over fuzzy slippers in a Wal-Mart at two in the morning. Or maybe not. This is Wal-Mart I’m talking about after all.

A year later, in the high school theatre that houses my church on Sunday mornings, I allowed my mind to return to that hospital room. My sister was in the bed, sleeping. My mom was in the recliner next to her, distraught, lost, and desperate. There were far more questions than answers, and fear constantly hummed in the back of our minds. I could see all of these things clearly even though I was a year older and now on the other side of the country.

And then the pastor said a word of encouragement from 1 John while the piano softly announced that God had indeed granted my request.

A portion of "Psalm 130 (From the Depths of Woe)"

From the Depths of Woe I raise to thee
The voice of lamentation;
Lord, turn a gracious ear to me
And hear my supplication…

Though great our sins and sore our woes
His grace much more aboundeth;
His helping love no limit knows,
Our utmost need it soundeth.

I've Arrived. But Just Where Am I?

A couple of weeks ago (or was it 3?), I went to see Matt Hale perform at The Hotel Cafe in Hollywood. Matt usually goes by the moniker Aqualung, so if you're shopping around for some new albums full of well-crafted songs, look for that name.

When he took his seat behind his upright piano, he announced to us all: "I've arrived." We clapped, of course, and enjoyed 40 minutes-or-so of songs and banter.

I've been thinking about that announcement these past few days. I've arrived. Usually you tell someone you've arrived at a destination as in, "I'm outside your house now," or "I landed at the airport." But we can also arrive at ideas or stages of growth. And those places aren't easily located on a map.

The place I've arrived at recently doesn't come up in any GPS system or on Mapquest. I hardly know what to call this place at which I've arrived. Instead, I find myself frequently (as recently as this morning, in fact) telling people that I'm here in LA for now. Or I'm here at this job for now. I seem to be focusing on "now" a lot, now that I think about it.

A couple of friends recently challenged me to be more aggressive with my career aspirations. For the record, I climbed off the corporate latter a long time ago with no intention of ever getting back on that blasted thing. Well, this place I've arrived doesn't really seem concerned with career aspirations. Instead, this place I've arrived is more concerned with the intangible: relationships, education, experiences. These aren't things usually scored on employee reviews.

While this place may be difficult to describe or locate, I know exactly how I got here. By way of a life-changing year abroad and a challenging year at home. One year gave me opportunities to work with magnificent people who thought and operated completely differently than any of my former colleagues. The other gave me opportunities to work with people I had literally known since my infancy. Both were challenging. Both gave me perspective. And from where I sit now, life seems especially fragile and resilient all at the same time.

This past week my sister completed a long and grueling program that will hopefully right her course. Next week she moves into a new home. In many ways she begins a new life next week: a new job, a new return address to write on letters, a new set of challenges. But I am praying fervently that she savors this moment. For such a time as this, she has arrived at this this season of new relationships and lessons to be learned.

For such a time as this, I am in Los Angeles working alongside incredible people in an incredible field of work. For such a time as this, I am living in a small apartment with a big kitchen and neighbors from far away cities. For such a time as this, I've arrived at this time of uncertainty full of routine.

And I am determined to make the most of it.

Second Chances Are Cake Stand Blue

I have never been so happy to see the backside of a year as I was this past January 1st. There were some good moments, no doubt, but the majority of my 2008 was smudged with the trials and tribulations associated with my sister's drug addiction.

Usually I don't talk a lot about my sister's struggles with crystal meth because I feel that is her story to tell. So I won't be telling that story here. I do, however, feel that I can talk about the 7 years or so I've stood in the middle of the intense fire that engulfed my family. Topics like this aren't really suitable dinner conversation, so I typically reserve this heavier fare for those late night philosophical discussions with my mom or very close friends.

And topics like this aren't really fun to read about on blogs.

But what does make for a good blog post are those moments when you can actually see the storm cloud behind you.

This week I've been moving all of my things from one room in my parents' house to my sister's old room. This is an effort to provide a healthy environment for my sister when she returns to this house for a holiday visit or a weekend stay.

My sister's old room was a bright purple. The color that a high school girl would pick to match her very girlie Pottery Barn bedspread. I guess most people would look at a color like that and be cheered up. For me, though, that color was terrifying and depressing. I think my mom felt the same way when she looked into my sister's old room because she was adamant about painting over it.

So I went to Lowe's and looked at rows of paint samples called "mint gelato green" and "summer sky" and "antique white" until I found a pale blue called "cake stand blue."

As I painted over that terrible purple, I wondered if the walls would forget all that they had seen in this room - if the memory would be wiped as clean as this new color. I thought about how bright the room had become and the promise of new memories to be made in this room.

For my sister, her current state of transformation is not much different from these four walls. She is in a program, as most people politely refer to rehab, and has matured exponentially in a very short time. It's taking a lot of work, but she is slowly shedding darkness and discovering the bright promise of her future.

Ah, Cake Stand Blue. I think you're my new favorite color.