There is a lot to be thankful for this season, but for some reason the universe keeps tapping me on the shoulder to remind me that life is tenuous, precious and fleeting.  Actually, it’s my Mom who keeps calling to alert me of death and destruction in my home state of Minnesota.  But we mustn’t shoot the messenger.  I am reminded that for many, the holidays are a difficult time, because their tribes are down by one.  Death seems to come at the most inconvenient times.

Yesterday we said goodbye to my dear Minnesota childhood neighbor Bob.  His son Steve is my oldest friend and was kind enough to play groomsman at my wedding.  We were born a mere 6 weeks apart and wiled away most days pretending to drive to the Dairy Queen in my Dad’s white VW Bug.  Having a few pounds to spare, Steve and I dreamed big. When we were ten Steve moved away when his parents, Bob and Margaret, built their dream home in an open field 5 miles away because our neighborhood, comprised of eight houses and surrounded by corn fields, was too crowded for them.  Really just exchanging one wind-swept frozen tundra for another, except the first at least offered enough neighborhood kids to play softball.  But who am I to judge Bob and Margaret’s dreams.

Bob and Margaret were high school sweethearts who sported an incredible sense of humor.  If you do the math, B and M at the ripe age of 18 had Irish quadruplets – a child every 9-12 months, for four years running.  I believe this demands a sense of humor; thank God they had it in spades. 

Like most of my Midwest contemporaries, Bob, Margaret and Steve are easy-going, nose-to-the-grindstone, stoic folk.  They do not talk about religion or politics in mixed company, or any type of company for that matter.  Such matters are very personal.  In fact, I remember when dear friend Steve came out of the political closet and embraced Rush Limbaugh like a Dilly Bar.  I asked what his parents thought and he said he thought they were on the other side of the political spectrum from him (thank you, Jesus), but in fact, they had never discussed politics…ever.  You can imagine the stark contrast between Steve’s young, fun-loving yet emotionally stoic, devout Catholic parents and the liberal, Unitarian, nothing-like-a-good-debate about existential angst over hand-crafted espresso neighbors.  Not to mention we must have asked the question “And how did that make you feel?” at least three times a day.  Yeah – we were freaks.  Bob and Margaret were just normal and fun.

So when I called Margaret yesterday to extend my condolences I did so with hesitation.  After all, I am not a cousin or close relative.  I have not spoken to Steve for over a year.  Surely they are busy making funeral arrangements and a quiet note with a fruit basket sent within the next month will suffice.  But in my heart I knew I had to call. I lost my Dad to pancreatic cancer eight years ago and Bob, Margaret and Steve made a heart-felt appearance at his funeral.

I was expecting (hoping) a concerned aunt might answer the phone, but Margaret picked up and there we were… on the precipice of grief…her and Bob, icons of my youth, me the girl next door.  I worried I was intruding on the most intimate of moments…a mere 12 hours after her husband of 49 years had died.  I took a deep breath and said with cracked voice “Margaret, I am soooo sorry.”  And Margaret graciously reminded me that faced with profound loss we are given the opportunity to touch each others hearts in ways we are never given access to in our day to day. 

With great clarity and focus, Margaret wasted no time in telling me “her story.”  The story of Bob dying in her arms, how difficult it was, how his body just gave out, how he looked so peaceful.  Never do you feel so alive, so sad, so connected to God and others than at the door of death.    Today adrenalin was flowing, awareness was acute, and there was no time but the present.  This was her story.  This was Bob and Margaret’s story.  It had a brilliant beginning, a long middle, and now she knew how it would end.  It was sad, it was beautiful, it was truthful, it was spiritual, it was sad, and it just was.  In profound moments of death and birth, these are the stories, waiting on the edge of our lips for a caring soul to come along and just listen.  It is our chance to tell the world the significance of one person’s life.  As a listener, tell me you are not afraid of the truth, because this is my story and it was just written.  Let me give the story life, so I remember it is real, that it will be alright, that someone for-went picking up their dry cleaning today to call and tell me they cared.  

And once again, I was reminded that these raw moments are gifts and if I am so honored to be asked to listen, I will listen.  I will cry.  I will pat hands and just say “I am sooo sorry.”  In this instance, flowers and fruit baskets are important gestures, but “being there” is irreplaceable.  Sometimes you just have to be brave and take a front seat, if you’re lucky enough to be asked to sit down and hear the story.

The Dynamic Duo of Mark and Kristen, my creative writer friends from way back when, gifted this blog to me for my last birthday.  When I moved from San Francisco to the small hamlet of Napa five years ago I had great plans of marching into the Napa Register with a portfolio of dazzling musings about a city mom of two going country.   No doubt the quips would be hysterical and too pithy, too smart, too too for any features editor to pass up. Never mind I had never written much of anything but a Holiday Newsletter. 

My inflated sense of self soon shrunk and writers block set in. In place of a creative outlet I decided to take a page from Van Gogh’s book of Artist Angst and spend the next 5 years talking about all the writing I would be doing….just as soon as the creative spirit moved me.  Any day now, just as soon as I clean this sink with a toothbrush.  Then enter Mark and Kristen with their capes to set up my blog, thus removing all technical obstacles in my way.  In other words: “Stop your kvetching, Shelley. Just write!”

So I am new to the blogging world.  I certainly have read many talented friends blogs (see links to right) and even commented on their posts, but I was never on the receiving end of the comments until now.  Apparently when you are brave enough to stick your neck out – picture of a golden retriever hanging his nozzle out of a Porsche on the autobahn comes to mind – and write where your passions lie (say No on 8), you may be a bit surprised that not everyone agrees with you or even appreciates your oh-so-intelligent insight.  This comes in the form of “comments.”

I guess the “series of tubes called the internets”, as cultural giant Senator Ted Stevens says, is open to everyone.  Even people who do not share my values, ideas, beliefs, etc.  Go figure. Why didn’t someone warn me?  When discussing what is appropriate and safe to post and not post online, dear friend Mark reminded me that anything you post in cyberspace you should be comfortable telling your grandmother and airing on CNN. 

The problem is I tend to over share.  I am the kind of person that when asked about my son’s birth I am more than happy to supply ALL the details.  “….and then this wooosh of water came…”  Put it this way, when I tell a story I can see the thought bubble above friend’s heads that say “TMI.”  To add to my dilemma, I married a lovely, sweet man who is so private he surely missed his calling as a CIA undercover agent.  My eight-year-old knows my maniacal need to process and share so well, upon hearing that “mommy was writing online” he immediately gave me a very detailed list of topics I am NOT allowed to write about (i.e. ANYTHING that has happened to him from birth to the present). 

Blogging ethics is a subject many people in this universe know all too well.  Dooce author, Heather Armstrong, found her calling as full-time blogger when her employer fired her for writing about her work and co-workers (albeit anonymously). 

Then there is the reaction of family and friends.  My dear friend Kate said “who would put your diary online for everyone to see?!” before I told her I blogged.  Seems many over 35 are private bunches who have little time for cyberspace.  My mom said “Blog?  What’s that?”  Ok, she’s 83.  But she’s a hip 83 that knows her way around an email account, scanner and fax.  (what I really enjoy is when she shouts writes  in my comments section “Shelley – This is your mother…” which is followed by a compliment that is Pulitzer worthy or  “I don’t understand this.  Guess I’m of a different generation.”)

What is the lesson I have learned in my short month, 3 posts, of blogging?  If your thinned skin and you want to please everyone you should stick to writing about babies, puppies and rainbows in your Holiday Newsletter.  But really, would that be very interesting?

So here it goes… I won’t write about co-workers or my work. I will try my best to keep my friends and families most embarrassing moments off the screen and I will hope that all friends and foes will be open to the “conversation” and exchange of ideas.  If you know you hate my politics stay clear of those posts.  Maybe my musings about parenthood and forty-somethings will connect.   But I think we should keep it interesting, or why bother? 

The words of wisdom I try to keep in mind these days: “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”