Sissy

Written by Jennifer Hull on April 28th, 2010

I don’t recommend trying to explain cremation to a couple of seven year old boys if you can possibly avoid it.  As our sixteen year old dog lay dying in our living room, sleeping on her Land’s End dog bed with its paw print pattern and embroidered letters spelling “Sissy,” I got a phone call from my husband, Oban, at work saying he was ready to end it.  There was no more we could do for her, he reasoned, and she was going to be dead within a few more days anyway.  He couldn’t bear to see her suffer and he was afraid it would come to that if we waited any longer.  The vet could see her at 5:30.  They could put her to sleep in the car so she wouldn’t have to go into the vet office,  a place she obviously detested.

I wasn’t ready.  She was no longer eating but she was still drinking a bit and it seemed she was still experiencing pleasure, relishing tummy rubs and laying in the grass outside sniffing the spring air. I felt I hadn’t adequately prepared our boys.  They knew Sissy was dying but I didn’t think they imagined it would happen anytime soon.  I wasn’t about to delve into the concept of euthanasia with them.  Oban and I had agreed that, if it did come to that,  we would explain to them simply (by a lie of omission) that she died in her sleep in the car.  Feeling pressured by the new time frame,  I brought it up with them, again.  “So Sissy seems a little weaker every hour.  She hasn’t eaten in several days now and she’s barely drinking. She can only stand up with our help.  It may not be long before she dies.”

This news was, of course, followed by a barrage of questions, in stereo: “When will she die?” “Can I see her when she’s dead?”  “What will happen after she dies?” “Can we have a party after she dies?” “Who will be the soldiers at her funeral?”

They all threw me, but especially the last one, until I realized that Liam was recalling my grandfather’s wake, Catholic funeral, and burial at a veteran’s cemetery.  Somehow along the path of explaining the lack of military personnel involved in dogs’ funerals  and that there would be no wake or open casket for Sissy,  I worked my way into the difficult cremation corner.  I explained that after my dog Banjo had died, long before they were born, he had been cremated and I was able to scatter his ashes instead of burying him. This of course, led to more questions like, “What’s ash?” and, “What does ‘cremated’ mean?”  After I arrived at the inevitable quasi-scientific description of cremation, the most challenging round of questions came hurling at me.  “ You mean they BURN her?” “In a FIRE?”  “Where do all her bones go?”  “The ash is SISSY?”

I called Oban and bargained for one more day.  He relented.  By that night,  Sissy was completely unable to walk and had stopped drinking.  By four a.m. I gave up on trying to sleep.  I just listened for her, waiting to help her since she was now peeing on her bed, and whimpering sad, embarrassed cries when she did.  I was plagued by guilt for having possibly extended her life one day too long.   The next day, after the boys left for school,  I fed her water from one of the boy’s old baby bottles.  She  lapped only enough to moisten her dry tongue.   We carried her outside to the grass, but she looked uncomfortable, vulnerable.  We carried her back inside, fearing rain.  Home alone with her, I watched as the life began to drain from her eyes while she stared at me.  By noon, I called the vet.  They were booked.  We could bring her in at five.

The boys,  looking through the windows,  saw me sobbing as Oban lifted her into his car.   They ran to our neighbor’s house, and returned with gifts they had made for me – beaded pipe cleaner bracelets and necklaces.   When Oban came home alone, with swollen eyes,  he brought with him a small ice-cream cake with Sissy written across the top in red icing.  We ate it.  Then we cried some more, everyone except for Liam, who waited a couple of days until he was sure the rest of us were alright.   The floodgates finally opened for him when another neighbor dropped by the house with a sympathy card and a yellow rose.

“Where is she?” he questioned me.  “ You said she would live on in our hearts but I don’t feel her there!  Even if she’s in heaven, she must be so lonely without us!”

Death.

We made an altar out of a coffee table to fill the empty space where she slept, placing on it photos, flowers, cards, gifts, artwork, her collar, and  a cross (since we didn’t have a “Baby Jesus” figurine, as Liam had requested, on hand.)

I called my mom a few days later.  Why did I feel like I was walking in a fog?  Why did I feel cold all the time?  Why was I so unmoored, missing the sound of her breathing?

“It’s only been a few days,” she said.  “It will pass but it will take time.”

“But I had been prepared for this,” I countered.   “I knew she was dying.  She lived a full life.  She was a sixteen year old dog.”

Even as I heard myself say it, I recognized that what I had lost was my most constant companion since the birth of my boys seven years earlier, a devoted, cherished, and patient Nanny dog whose soulful, loving, protective, intelligent, feminine,  intuitive presence brought me immeasurable calm and comfort.

When, a week later, Liam began waking often at night, saying he felt frightened, I felt frustration rising up in me, annoyed that I couldn’t quell his anxieties.  Finally, I said to him,“ It takes time.  Patience.  It will pass.”  And it did.   I had said it to him before, but too early.  His grief had arrived in its own time.

Soon, tomorrow or the next day, we will receive Sissy’s ashes in a tin box.  I’m not quite sure what we will do with the ashes, scatter them or keep them.   What I do know is that we will have a proper ceremony for her,  for all of us.   And there will be many questions.

 

Posted in Daily Life, Parenthood | No Responses »

Re-Entry

Written by Jennifer Hull on September 19th, 2009

Re-entering Taos always feels to me like re-entering Earth’s atmosphere from outer space in a rocket that might burst at the seams from all the heat, shaking, and pressure.

I could blame it on the thin air at this altitude which, after a summer at sea level, reduces my ability to think, sleep, and eat. I could attribute it to the August heat, dry as a sauna, which leaves my brain, and seemingly everyone else’s, in a general state of afternoon siesta. I could chalk it up to good old jet lag or on the interminably long three hour drive home from the airport with restless six year old boys after two flights and a layover.

Or I could just accept what I know to be true. For all of its raw beauty and its spirituality,  Taos has a special way, upon returning to it, of kicking one’s butt.

After a couple of weeks back home in Taos, when I was certain I had endured the brunt of the transition (thankfully without any serious illness, missing pets, or car damage,) I mustered up the energy and courage to venture into our local Wal-Mart, a true litmus test of my acclimatization.

I went to buy a facial moisturizer, an anti-wrinkle cream to be exact, to make myself feel better about what the strong sun and unquenchable dryness was doing to my Irish skin. The glass cabinet where the facial moisturizers are kept was locked. I asked an employee at the pharmacy if she could open it for me. She directed me to find the “lady at Health and Beauty.” I pushed my cart through Health and Beauty where I discovered no sign of human life. I ventured into Lawn and Garden and found five women clad in blue Wal-Mart vests chatting with each other.

“Excuse me. Could anyone please unlock the moisturizer cabinet for me?”

The women discussed the issue amongst themselves for a while, wondering where that key could have gone now. When they had determined that none of them knew who had it, one of the women pulled a walkie-talkie from her vest pocket, put it up to her mouth and shouted over the intercom, “ We need a customer service representative to the Oil of Olay counter!”

Oil of Olay counter? Never mind the fact that the ten dollar moisturizer I was hoping to purchase was made by Neutrogena, the way she said Oil of Olay reminded me of roaming around the cosmetic booths at Macy’s in New York when I was a kid, where overly made-up and perfumed beauty specialists lured women to their counters by spraying fragrances at them and offering cosmetic “bonuses” from Clinique, Chanel, Dior, Estee Lauder, Lancome… Here, in Wal-Mart, the glass cabinet is apparently the Oil of Olay counter, and it is special enough to be kept locked up.

I wandered back to the cabinet, feeling silly since I was nearly positive no one would appear to unlock it, and pondering how a Target would at that moment feel like a Saks Fifth Avenue. I waited near the case for five minutes, watching the old, weathered men at the Subway counter talk and eat lunch. I considered giving up, but I had already invested so much time and energy into my quest that I decided to persevere. As soon as I made up my mind to walk back over to the ladies in Lawn and Garden, the woman from the pharmacy approached. “You’re still waiting for that key? I’ll get one from the register.”

She disappeared and reappeared surprisingly quickly. “Which one do you want?” she asked while looking in the cabinet. I pointed to a 1.3 ounce tube. She removed it with a regal formality but she didn’t hand it to me. Instead, she said, “I’ll take you to register nine with it.” I was not done with my shopping, but I realized I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I was personally escorted through Wal-Mart, not allowed to hold my precious moisturizer until I was officially handed off to the employee at the cash register.

“I guess people steal these,” the lady at the register said, without looking up.

“Oh,” I said, unloading my cart, “ but this laundry detergent cost more.”

“This is smaller,” she replied.

“Right,” I said, while a voice in my head, as clear as the one over the intercom, told me, “Houston, the Eagle has landed.”

 

Posted in Daily Life | No Responses »

Witness

Written by Jennifer Hull on June 29th, 2009
Father Bill

photo by Dorie Hagler

“To paint and to pray are the same thing.”          ~ Balthus

I met with William Hart McNichols, better known in Taos as Father Bill, on a gray Thursday morning  in his parish office at the San Francisco De Asis Church. We both arrived feeling sleepy from the heavy weather and drank hot coffee with sugar and powdered creamer while sunken in worn reclining chairs, surrounded by shelves of books, and images of saints hanging on the wooden plank walls. Like an apothecary searching his jars for the most potent remedies, Father Bill scanned the books, handed me one, and then another and yet another until I had a pile in my lap that consisted of biographies of feminist Edith Stein and poet Gerard Hopkins, translations of the works of Saint Teresa and Saint Gemma, cards of his own paintings of martyrs ranging from Polish solidarity leader Father Jerry Popieluszko to Austrian conscientious objector Frank Jagerstatter, and my very favorite; a collection of his iconography written by John Dear entitled You Will Be My Witnesses. Two and a half hours had passed and my tape recorder had long since clicked off before I reluctantly became aware of the passing time, and Father Bill walked me through the rain back to my car.

Father Bill has a low and soothing voice. With a tall, lanky frame and the bone structure of a model, he looks deceptively younger than his nearly sixty years. He is an academic, having studied art, philosophy, and theology at St. Louis University, Boston College, Boston University, and the Weston School of Theology in Cambridge.  He also studied at the California College of Arts and Crafts in Oakland and received a Master of Fine Arts in Landscape Painting from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. He became a Jesuit at the tender age of nineteen. In spite of his intellectual nature and his captivating speaking style, he communicates most clearly and movingly through his stunning Byzantine style iconography. (www.fatherbill.org)

“Icons change you from within because they are a prayer,” said Father Bill. “They will at times create an atmosphere inside you to receive something new from God.  They will plough the field, or get ready the ground… What you gaze at, you become.”

Father Bill came New Mexico to study iconography under the tutelage of Russian American master Robert Lentz, in 1990.  Like Lentz, Father Bill has endured criticism for painting images of uncanonized modern humanitarians, such as Princess Diana. “She was clearly a light,” he told me.

“I’ve had so many identities put on me, but the thing is I am many shades of gray…  I’m not an activist and I don’t think of myself as liberal or conservative. I’m always trying to balance.  I’m always looking for what’s missing…  I feel the spirit moving, and I want move with the spirit.”

He bemoans the Puritanical nature of American society. “The word liberal has been caged and closed and made negative. It’s like Fahrenheit 451. Part of Puritanism was destroying people by outing them.  It was a mob rules kind of mentality and it continues on in America… One of the reasons I ended up here in Taos is that it’s not Puritan here.”

Father Bill remained a Jesuit until shortly after he revealed his sexual orientation to Time magazine, in 2002. “It felt like a divorce,” he told me quietly of the dissolution of his thirty-four year “home” with the Jesuits.  Poignanty, perhaps, he feels the experience has made him a better priest. Because of his own experiences of being ostracized and of facing prejudice, he feels he can “extend a wing” to others who face discrimination.

Growing up in Denver, the son of Governor of Colorado Stephen McNichols and Marjorie Hart, Father Bill became accustomed to the notion of living in the public eye. “I never allow myself to be built up. I understand the rise and fall trajectory from politics. If I were to get up on a pedestal, I couldn’t do my work. I learned that from my dad.” He credits his mother, who had “a light inside of her,” with giving him both a strong sense of self and of domestic life.

He defines one of the highlights of his life as presenting Pope John Paul II, at World Youth Day in Denver, with his icon Our New Lady of Advent, now a permanent part of the Vatican Museum’s collection. “He had an aura!  He was accepting of me as a being…  I grew up in a political life and when you know that kind of life you can relate to those people who are trapped in it.”

Father Bill first came to the San Francisco de Asis parish in Ranchos in 1999 when he was commissioned to do a painting of Saint Francis for the famed church by Father Tim Martinez. “Taos is raw and unromantic – a harsh, not gentle, place. If you’re a romantic, you soon get slapped out of it here.  At the same time, Taos is really spiritual.” He realized he could better focus on his own art work in Taos than in New York.

While living in New York, Father Bill worked as an Aids chaplain, alongside Fr. Mychal Judges, the beloved New York City Firefighter chaplain killed at Ground Zero on 9/11.  Father Bill captured Mychal’s spirit in his image entitled Holy Passion Bearer Michael Judges. In the painting, Mychal holds out a veil above the burning towers, as if to envelop and protect all the victims. Father Bill described a “passion bearer” as one who “empties oneself of vengeance, purposefully choosing solidarity with the unprotected, the victims of injustice… the outcast.”  During his time in New York, he also illustrated over twenty children’s books.

“When I was five years old, my brother used to ask me ‘Are you still in your room coloring?’”He smiled at the recollection. “I’m still in my room coloring.”

 

Posted in Horsefly | 1 Response »

May

Written by on May 31st, 2009

Taos smells like a thousand lilac bushes these days; sweet and purple – with rushing rivers smoothing silver stones, apple trees blooming tender pink and white,  the rackety racking of tractors behind latilla fences, calves nestled beneath their mothers in green fields, warm sunlight past bedtime. The world has exploded from brown and gray into technicolor.  Our little neighbor Mae Louise is two and a half weeks old.

On the day she was born, arriving in quite a hurry after stalling a week past her due date to make her grand entrance, I drove Jack and Liam and Mae’s four year old brother Oliver home from school.  Another family friend picked up Oliver from our house and drove him to the birth center to be with his parents and meet his new sibling.  Oliver’s parting advice that morning to his laboring mother, Beth,  had been to “push really hard.” Jack, Liam, Oban and I visited later, after Oliver had already had a chance to become acquainted with his baby sister.

When we arrived, Oliver was eager to go play in the courtyard with Jack and Liam.  Oban sat outside with them. Through the open window, we heard Oliver say something about wanting to kill someone.

“Did Oliver just say he wants to kill the baby?” his dad, Tom, asked. The nurse midwife, who had come in to check on Beth and Mae, explained that Oliver must be expressing that he did not want anyone to kill the baby, already feeling the protective instincts of an older brother.

“I want to hit the baby in the head with a rock,”   Oliver said, this time much more loudly and clearly, leaving no room for competing interpretations of his feelings.

Jack, Liam and Oliver had all been convinced that the new baby would be a boy. Jack had prepared for the baby’s birth with such eagerness and devotion that you would have thought he was a Magi preparing for the arrival of a king.  He “knit” a new hat for the baby which turned out to look more like a headband, and delivered gifts of dandelions and toys for days before her birth.  All three of them seemed to envision someone who would come out walking and talking and who would blend seamlessly into their neighborhood boy routine, which consists largely of riding bikes, climbing things, and wreaking havoc on red ant colonies.  Jack and Liam continued to refer to her as “he” for two days after meeting Mae.  The fact that the baby turned our to be a girl seemed to add insult to injury for Oliver, who was having enough of a time trying to accept that the fact his life had been so rudely interrupted by the arrival of a baby who his parents dared to love as much as him.

Our family has been going through its own, albeit smaller, transitions.  Spring was christened when Liam, after playing suspiciously peacefully outside for over an hour with Jack, raced into the house, crying and wailing, “I think you’re going to kill me, Mom!”

It took a few minutes to first examine him for blood, and then to calm him to the point where he was able to explain that he had climbed on top of my car and somehow shattered the entire sunroof with his rear end, miraculously without injury to himself or his brother.  I still haven’t managed to squeeze in a trip to Santa Fe to have the sunroof replaced, and find myself routinely picking shards of glass out of my hair while driving.

Jack and Liam will “graduate” from kindergarten in two days.  Liam appears nearly toothless, and inadvertently torments Jack by consistently losing his teeth first, acquiring quite a stash of tooth fairy dollars in the meantime,  and generally remaining a couple of months ahead of his brother in terms of his physical development.  I try to console Jack by reminding him that he was born first, but being born was about the last thing Jack did before Liam, which leaves Jack frustrated to the point of total exasperation.  On top of the teeth, Liam recently initiated the idea of falling asleep by himself in a different bedroom from Jack.   While I hoped Jack might be inspired to rise to the occasion, he instead asked, “So does this mean you’ll sleep with me, Mama?”

Jack seems to try to compensate by overachieving in other arenas.  Last week he quickly talked me into the idea of a spontaneous lemonade stand and true to his entrepreneurial spirit, ran from door to door inviting all of our neighbors, including one elderly friend who is very hearing impaired and who immediately drove over in his jeep to see what Jack was so excited about, fearing an emergency.  Jack has also taken it upon himself to reveal all of his worldly knowledge to Oliver, who, being a couple of years younger, tolerates and is sometimes even impressed by Jack’s lengthy explanations of how to best go down a slide, build a fort, play soccer or sell lemonade.

As spring moves along, though, there is evidence of things settling, germinating and taking root.  We finally braved dealing with the insurance company in order to schedule a  repair of the sunroof,  and they’re going to throw our windshield (which was cracked when a tractor spit up a stone) into the deal too.   Today, at school, Jack and Liam will have a Ride Away ceremony with their teachers and classmates.  The graduating kindergarten students will “ride” horses they have made over to the first grade classroom, symbolizing and celebrating their metamorphosis. Jack, who still sneaks into our bed in the middle of the night, is beginning to actually prefer falling asleep without Liam nearby.

And yesterday, I even overheard Oliver saying to Jack and Liam,  “Hey guys, have you seen my baby sister?  She has such pretty lips!”

 

Posted in Jack and Liam, Parenthood | 1 Response »

Summer, In Spring

Written by on May 6th, 2009
photo by Dorie Hagler

photo by Dorie Hagler

“Mid spring and everything knows it. Nest making, photosynthesizing, rush and tumble of green, even the light takes on that grassy hue. The earth gone soft and its odor’s indiscreet, cow shit and cottonwoods…
Cloud puff-in the pale blue and over the ridge a howl short of melody, like pain that can’t find words and comes out moan.
Up to my elbows in the smear of it.” ~ Summer Wood, Arroyo

Summer Wood looks like her name. A pixie, a faerie, a woodland sprite; she is a fine boned, ethereal looking creature. If translucent wings were to sprout from her back and she were to fly away, twinkling, at dusk, it would not seem entirely surprising. Paradoxically, her body language conjures images of a gangly and shy high school basketball player. Like the northern New Mexico spring she describes in her critically acclaimed novel Arroyo, Summer Wood is earthy, complicated, fiercely bright, magical, and entirely, unquestionably real.

Writer, teacher, mentor, and parent of three sons on the cusp of adulthood, Summer is also a licensed general contractor. Building houses trained her to “think three dimensionally, to look at the architecture of a story and to be able to see a story as a shaped thing.” “It taught me how to spend a lot of time making something,” she told me over coffee at Loka. “It takes time to write a novel. It takes time to build a house. And both take some audacity.”

“Being a builder fits into the hunter gatherer life of a writer. You do a project and then have some time off. You have a lot of flexibility to arrange your own time. And it’s a great counter balance to the sitting at a desk thing you do as a writer. It puts you out into the world and introduces you to so many stories you would never have a chance to hear otherwise.”

And hear them them, she does, with a pitch perfect sense. According to Summer, “Your ear is the most important part of writing.” In a post on her blog thewhereofit.com, which is devoted to readers and writers who “care about place,” Summer pays tribute to her idol Grace Paley: “Her ear was exquisitely tuned to the nuances of the heart as expressed in the music of our language, and her success at it capturing both takes my breath away.” When the late Paley’s daughter happened upon Summer’s post , she invited Summer to initiate a reading of Paley’s works in an effort to “help keep her words in the air.” Summer credits Paley with being one of the premiere writing stylists of the twentieth century. “Her work showed me that there were no rules, other than to listen to people.”

Summer’s writing has been described by author John Nichols as “full of sweet weather and tender mercies.” While her novel Arroyo was set in a tangibly familiar New Mexican mining town, her upcoming novel Wrecker takes place in San Francisco and Humboldt County, California.

“It is critical for me to place my writing somewhere,” Summer told me. “I think there is such a connection between who we are and where we’re from and where we live and the stories that inform that relationship. I’ve always been interested in place and land, both rural and urban. Writers pee on things. You mark your territory.” Summer will teach two classes entitled “The Where of It” as part of the 2009 Taos Writer’s Conference (unm.edu/~taosconf/) during July.

Summer has also been involved in applying for a community reading program sponsored by the National Endowment for The Arts entitled “The Big Read.” Taos Public Library and SOMOS have teamed up to apply for this grant funded program in the hopes of adopting Rudolfo Anaya’s novel Bless Me, Ultima, a coming-of-age story set in the 1940′s on the eastern plains of New Mexico, as the focal point for a month long celebration of reading in Taos during November of 2009. Additionally, Summer, who has participated in the SOMOS Young Writers Mentorship Program for years, is currently mentoring an eighth grade student at Country Day School who is in the midst of writing her own novel.

Throughout Summer’s work, themes of metamorphosis, and of love choosing us in unexpected ways reappear in different forms. Her sensitivity to her often adrift characters, as well as her empathy for their predicaments and personal struggles allow her readers to experience their transformations. During our conversation, Summer defined a hero as “someone who didn’t expect to do what they have been faced with and yet have risen to the challenge day after day, with nothing personal to gain – and yet who then gains everything through it.” She referred to a Fred Hughes adaptation of the works of the Roman poet, Ovid, whose writing she describes as astonishing, bawdy, ribald and erotic. According to Hughe’s translation in Tales from Ovid, Ovid wrote, “It is no crime to lose your way in a dark wood.”

“Isn’t that beautiful?” Summer asked me. “Ovid understood that, he got that, and was able to distill so much experience into his gorgeous poetry. Not to say that we’re not responsible for our choices, but it’s just that really, it is no crime to lose your way in a dark wood.”

 

Posted in Horsefly | 1 Response »

Hahn, Solo

Written by Jennifer Hull on April 6th, 2009
photo by Dorie Hagler

Dave Hahn, photo by Dorie Hagler

When I first e-mailed my friend Dave Hahn about getting together for this column, I received the following message in my in-box:

Howdy. This is an automatic reply. I’m on a ship in Antarctic waters
until Feb 6th and will be unable to check e-mail until that time.
Best Regards,
Dave

When I showed the e-mail to my husband, he said with a starry eyed look, “God, he’s cool.”

Dave Hahn has summited Everest ten times, more than any other non-Sherpa in history. He has guided 250 ascents of Mount Rainier and has summited Denali eighteen times over the course of 25 expeditions. He holds the world record of 25 summits of Antarctica’s highest peak, Vinson Massif. He has managed to help save quite a few lives along the way in a number of celebrated high altitude rescues. He also works on the ski patrol at Taos Ski Valley and is a certified EMT. As if all that weren’t enough, he is a gifted writer who has skillfully detailed these experiences in his contributions to climbing books, climbing web sites, and Outside Magazine. Part modern day explorer, part Everest legend, part super hero, and all around nice guy, Dave is easy to admire.

I was recently introduced to the theory that Star Wars provides the ultimate paradigm for compelling character archetypes, ones that can be found throughout religions and mythology. When I mentioned this Star Wars archetype idea to Dave, he said, without blinking but with a warm twinkle in his eyes, “I’m Han Solo.”

I thought back to about one decade ago, when Dave began his annual visits to my Taos Middle School classroom to share slide shows of his adventures with my students. In the throes of a seven period day with sixth, seventh and eighth grade kids, I’m not sure I ever fully appreciated the renown of our esteemed guest. What I absolutely did recognize was how friendly, gracious, funny, and at ease Dave was with the students, characteristically humble and somehow self-deprecating while describing such extraordinary moments as his team’s discovery of the body of historic British mountaineer George Leigh Mallory on the wind swept north face of Everest in 1999. Dave signed our classroom copy of Ghosts of Everest, The Search for Mallory and Irvine with the inscription, “For a class of kids who are true class. Thanks for keeping track of us.”

The thought of Dave as gun slinging rogue Hans Solo simply didn’t fit for me. Then again, after my most recent conversation with Dave, Star Wars creator George Lucas’ characterization of Han Solo as “a loner who realizes the importance of being part of a group and helping the group” sure did.

Dave describes his greatest achievement as “ making it in an unconventional career. I’m proud of that,” he told me on a bright March morning over coffee at Taos Cow.

When I asked him how he feels about his record ten ascents of Everest “for a non-Sherpa”, he was quick to point out that Apa Sherpa, a Nepalese Sherpa mountain climber who currently lives in Salt Lake City, has summited Everest eighteen times, and noted that it’s a mixed blessing being celebrated for this record.

“Part of me hates the idea that this is an ethnically qualified record. And part of me really likes the attention. I think people minimize Sherpa accomplishments. They think Sherpas are born with three lungs and two hearts and that it’s somehow easier for them to do this. For me, the humbling thing is to realize that climbing high is just as hard for them. They do it better because their work ethic is superior to ours. They’ve earned it. And at the same time, I’m happy to be recognized for my accomplishments.”

While cognizant of the fact that mountain climbing has traditionally been regarded an exclusive or even elitist endeavor, Dave says he finds pleasure in teaching “ordinary” people how to climb mountains. In fact most of his summits have remarkably been achieved with clients in tow. He attributes his well-earned reputation for safety to patience, and to a willingness to accept the possibility of not reaching the summit even when excruciatingly close.

As for his celebrity in the climbing world, Dave said, “I don’t hang out at film festivals. I hang out on Highline Ride or at Everest Base Camp. I don’t make the choice to take advantage of this notoriety. There’s no benefit to going down that road… My job involves standing on cornices. I’m not doing this as a way to find another job. ”

Retaining his humility comes easily, according to Dave. “It’s pounded into me by the mountains and by the people I work with – the things that test me,” he said.“ When I work at Taos Ski Valley on the patrol, whether or not other people think I’m famous doesn’t help me if I’m not up to the job on a given day. There are guys on my patrol who are much more capable than I am. I need that. I need to continually test myself and I get the satisfaction that comes with being able to help. I don’t need to ask someone if I did a good job. I can feel it.”

Dave is a self-described “sucker” for supreme athletes like Michael Phelps and Tiger Woods. “I can’t believe people can be that good, that focused, that talented with the whole world watching. I’m fascinated by that idea of perfection. Time after time they do the right thing when the pressure’s on.”

When talking to Dave, it becomes quickly apparent that he hovers somewhere near denial when it comes to his own talent, perfectionism, and work ethic. “I wish I were more disciplined about getting work done,” he told me, repeatedly. He is quite self critical in general, particularly about what he refers to as his “disorganization.” “The work I’ve ended up doing forces me to have my act together and to have my bags packed.”

In spite of his engaging writing style, punctuated by his dry wit and insightful nature, it is “increasingly less likely” that Dave will write an autobiography. “There are so many climbing books out there that I don’t want to read, and I’d hate to have one on the shelf next to those that no one else wants to read. Right now it would be a vanity project. I’m not going to do it just to have my name in print or my thoughts preserved. Other than writing e-mails and daily logs for the companies I work for, I don’t have the discipline to write every day whether I feel like it or not. At this point, something has to just about reach out and kill me for me to write about it – and you can only write about that kind of thing so much before you’re dead.”

The youngest of three children, Dave graduated from SUNY Buffalo, where he competed on the swim team, in 1984. His father was a Yosemite rock climber in the 1940′s and ’50′s. “My dad has confidence in me. He knows that I take chances but that I don’t take them stupidly.” His mother grew up in Albuquerque, and his parents met at the Fort Bliss army post. When I asked Dave if his mother worries about him, he told me that his mother died of cancer when he was ten years old.

“My mother growing up here is what connected me to New Mexico. I discovered Taos on my own. It has everything I love about the world, except for glaciers. It has a mixture of physical beauty, culture and a sense of history that is very tangible and part of daily life. I’ll love it forever. I don’t always feel at home here but that’s not something I require of my home.”

In fact, he defines the the greatest love of his life as “the wilderness, the mountains, the natural physical world. I’m endlessly fascinated by it.”

One of Dave’s latest ventures has been working for Eddie Bauer, alongside fellow mountaineers Peter Whittaker and Ed Viesturs, to design and build a new outerwear and gear line called First Ascent for the outdoor outfitting retailer. Dave returns to Everest this month, with his First Ascent team, to guide another expedition up the highest mountain on Earth. This time he will guide seventeen year old Erica Dohring, who will miss her prom and high school graduation ceremony while she attempts to become the youngest American woman to climb Everest. The team’s dispatches will be posted on www.firstascent.com.

On the cusp of his departure to Kathmandu, I asked our twenty-first century, Taos version of Han Solo to describe his idea of perfect happiness.

“To be content. I live in a beautiful place and perfect happiness for me would be to reach a point where I’m content just being here. I’ll have to let go of these games that I play. Whatever it is I keep looking for, friends have found it in their front yard.”

 

Posted in Horsefly | No Responses »

The Hamster Diaries

Written by on March 21st, 2009

Our hamsters have hit puberty. The term puberty may actually a little misleading, since apparently hamsters can reach sexual maturity at as early as five weeks old, but it seems they have arrived at a point of development where they establish a social hierarchy. This is the information I garnered today from an overqualified Pet Smart employee, after driving nearly two hours from Taos to Santa Fe due to some recent, unsettling hamster drama in our home.

When I first arrived at Pet Smart I cornered an unsuspecting cashier on break and began rambling nonsensically about the domestic violence that had probably occurred between Tiny and Kookookutie. She quickly went to retrieve the “hamster specialist” but was intercepted by an overeager, teen-aged, acne ridden staff member who happened to own two mice and who desperately wanted to help me, though she seemed to have zero experience in the hamster department. Thankfully, the hamster specialist appeared in time to intervene. She was young, serene, and cerebral in an “I could be a veterinarian one day” kind of way and I could tell she really knew what she was talking about. The news was exactly what I had feared:

Jack and Liam are two alpha males who may appear to be small, harmless, friendly and cute but who could actually potentially kill each other in their efforts to establish dominance.

Well, that’s not exactly what the smart Pet Smart employee said, but it’s how I heard it. Because, really, this is not just about our hamsters.

Tiny and Kookookutie came into our lives about six months ago. They are Robovroski dwarf hamsters. Robo hamsters are known to be tiny, curious, timid, and very active. They don’t speak or squeak as much as most hamster species. Ours are male litter mates. In other words, they have quite a few things in common with Jack and Liam. And just like our twin sons, Robo hamsters are nocturnal. In fact, Robos are known for running up to twenty miles a night in about eight and a half hours. Just ask any of our recent house guests.

They are adorable, not creepy like mice or gerbils, and not as big or bulky as the teddy bear hamster my sister Elena had when we were kids which she aptly named Nippy. They are also acrobatic and highly entertaining and up until this week, had appeared very social and compatible with each other. They would spin for hours at a time on their wheel together, and sleep together cozily in a little puff of their soft grayish tan and white fur.

When Oban noticed one night last week that the fur on Kookookutie’s backside was disappearing, I feared the dreaded wet tail disease, but while no longer bushy tailed, Kookoo was still bright eyed. He was eating, drinking, active and appeared totally healthy. By the following day, his rump was red and raw. The boys and I brought him to the vet, who suspected Tiny was the likely culprit.

Somehow I convinced Oban that it would be his job to apply nightly warm compresses to Tiny’s bare butt, as the vet instructed, and then rub his wounds with a little antibiotic ointment; a seven day ordeal that he has been detailing on his Facebook page. We removed Tiny from the cage and put him in a box in the bathtub since there is not a single store in our little town that sells hamster cages. I placed Kookookutie’s cage in the bathtub too so they could still see and smell each other.

When I finally managed to get to Pet Smart, the “specialist” told me that it was highly unlikely to end up, as we did, with two Robo alpha males from the same litter. (I explained to her that although these were our first hamsters, this was not the first time time this kind of thing had happened to us.) She pointed out that typically one hamster would act submissive while allowing the other to become more dominant, thereby allowing for peaceful and safe coexistence. In our case, however, she recommended separate cages placed next to each other, and only supervised play time with each other once Kookoo healed.

At the same time as all of this hamster business was unfolding, I had been noticing a remarkable increase in the already unnerving amount of competition between Jack and Liam. They both seemed frustrated and edgy, short-tempered with each other and generally stressed out. Though still inseparable, they were competing morning, noon and night, jockeying for position while bike riding, skiing, running, swimming, playing, eating, peeing, sleeping, in a relentless quest for first, better, longer, faster, higher, more! It was becoming draining to watch, impossible to referee, and even more difficult to prevent.

After six years of respecting their fierce desire for togetherness, I suggested separate bedrooms to them, and found myself dreaming of separate classrooms, although there is only one class per grade in their small school. We brought up the topic of their seemingly competition-induced stress with their kindergarten teacher at their parent teacher conference last week. Since they tend to be shy and well behaved, just like those little Robos, their predicament is not always apparent to others. Their kindergarten teacher now has them going on imposed “vacations” from each other, several times during each school day, which seems to be relieving the pressure. And since these vacations have been externally mandated, Jack and Liam do not carry the weight of feeling like they are betraying or abandoning each other during these times of separation.

Maybe this “vacation” concept would help explain why, when I asked Liam yesterday what he wanted to drink with his lunch, he replied, in all seriousness, “A beer.” Tiny and Kookookutie are on vacation too. They’re not exactly drinking margaritas, but Kookoo is recovering, and we will spend our spring break listening to the squeaks of two wheels spinning all night long.

 

Posted in Daily Life, Jack and Liam, Parenthood | 2 Responses »

A Guide for the Souls Left Behind

Written by on March 4th, 2009
Tim Rivera

Tim Rivera

My friend Dorie Hagler and I have recently embarked upon a short column in Horse Fly, Taos’ arts and politics newspaper. It’s a biography column, focusing on Taos folks. (Believe me, Taos has no shortage of interesting characters.) I’m doing the writing and Dorie is doing the photos. The catch is that our column is currently limited to 850 words. I didn’t realize this until after writing the following article. So, while you can find the shortened version in this month’s Horse Fly, I’m including the longer version here.

A friend in advertising recently told me about his theory that Star Wars provides the ultimate paradigm for compelling character archetypes, ones that can be found throughout religions and mythology. If I were to apply this theory to the characters we’re choosing to interview for our new little column, our first character surprisingly emerges as our Luke Skywalker, the reluctant hero who learns to use his considerable, quiet power as a force for good in the world. Who knew he’d turn up in the form of a funeral director?

A Guide For the Souls Left Behind

When I sat down for lunch with Tim Rivera on an unseasonably warm February afternoon, he expressed his anxiety about leaving later in the day for Denver to visit with dear, longtime friends. They had recently lost their fourteen year old son who was hit by a car while crossing the street.

“My work doesn’t make this kind of thing any easier,” he said, referring to his job as funeral director for Rivera Family Mortuaries. “I want to go. I need to be there with my friends but there is still a sense of dread. It will be very emotional.”

Earlier in the day, Tim had driven to Holy Cross Hospital, to pick up the body of a one month old baby.

“People think the most challenging part of my work is dealing with the dead human body. In fact, that is probably the least difficult and most rewarding part of my work. It’s tender. It’s caring. I completely understand the humanness of the body. Just because the baby has stopped breathing doesn’t mean it’s not loved. It is surrounded by so much love. I don’t like the term cadaver. It dehumanizes the body. I care for the body as I would care for my child. The most difficult part of my work is actually being in the presence of grief – intense emotional pain.”

A couple of months ago, I was moved by Tim’s warmth and soulfulness at the rosary for a young man, beloved in the community, who had died suddenly of a rare infection. With a few introductory remarks, Tim acknowledged the depth and the heat of the emotion in the packed funeral home, discouraged formalities by reminding everyone that, “This is Taos,” and gently invited everyone to participate in the rosary, sung in a haunting, powerful rhythm by a male choir in Spanish. He hugged many of those he knew in the unadorned, dimly lit room.

“People in Taos have an instinct for sacredness. Contemporary death is reflective of modern society. Sometimes things are done in a way that doesn’t respect the sacredness of death. There is no lack of feeling in the Taos people. And a memorial service needs to reflect the power of the moment.”

If I were meeting Tim for the first time, I would never be able to guess his occupation. With his dapper style, lively eyes and friendly nature, I might assume he was a musician, a college professor, or even a dance instructor. Funeral director is certainly not the first profession that would come to mind. It would be equally challenging for me to place Tim on a map. With urban sensibilities and a relaxed, lyrical way of speaking, one would be hard pressed to deduce where exactly he had been raised.

In fact, Tim has been working as a funeral director since 1982. His father, Amos Rivera, bought the business in 1958. With funeral homes in Taos, Santa Fe, and Espanola, the Rivera family owns some of the few remaining family operated funeral homes in New Mexico.

“We actually wanted to scale back but there was no one else to take over these businesses except for big corporations. For me, this work was a denied calling, a calling I kept running away from.”

Growing up in both Taos and Pueblo, Colorado, Tim had no intentions of entering the family business.

“I had good grades in school but was getting into trouble, party trouble. I was ready for a change and I saw a brochure for this boarding school in Mississippi. In the brochure there were photos of school trips to Florida and New Orleans, trips to the beach. I had never before seen photos of girls in bikinis! I decided to go to boarding school!”

Tim went on to college at San Francisco State. His father encouraged him to also go to mortuary school on the side, just in case he would ever need a license in order to keep the family business running. Tim did get licensed, but after college he traveled to Spain. His greatest regret is that he took the money he earned while providing childcare for a Spanish family and spent it on a Eurail pass, instead of accepting an offer to stay in Spain and work at the family’s language school. “I could have learned several languages. It would have changed my life completely. But I had an itch to travel.”

Ultimately, Tim returned to Taos and his family’s business. “ I feel I’m meant to do this work, but I couldn’t do it anywhere other than Taos. I don’t like formalities. Even when I was a little boy, my dad would dress me as a funeral director. I have an aversion to those kinds of formalities. I search for meaningful experience through the intimacy of death. I feel privileged to be with people during such an intimate time, to be exposed to people’s stories. I couldn’t do it in a place that is emotionally closed. I love the richness of people’s spirituality in Taos, as reflected in their death rituals. It’s a healing elixir.”

I told Tim that when my beloved grandfather died in New York last winter, I was shocked to find that the local Catholic diocese did not allow personal eulogies at a funeral mass. I had written a eulogy and was determined to deliver it at his mass, in spite of my near disabling fear of public speaking. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of a generic, fill-in-the-blank funeral given by priest who had never met my grandfather. My mother somehow finagled permission from the church for me to speak for two minutes and while I needed to drink a shot of whiskey with my cup of coffee that morning in order find the nerve to read my eulogy (which was stubbornly longer than the alloted two minutes) aloud, the opportunity to do so publicly allowed for what felt like a healthy catharsis and emotional release.

“Even a simple story can mean so much,” Tim concurred. “You feel cheated otherwise. ”

Tim emphasized the value of working with experienced and compassionate local clergy members and grief counselors, including Father Bill, Ted Wiard, and Stephen Wiard who seem to intuitively sense what grieving loved ones need in order to help them begin to heal from their loss. When he told me that survivors of death are his heroes, he was quick to correct himself, smiling. “I should say survivors of the death of a loved one. No one survives death.”

Ted Wiard first worked with Tim following the deaths of his two young daughters in a car accident, and is the founder of Golden Willow Retreat, which offers free grief support groups in Taos, Espanola, and Santa Fe. Ted counts Tim as his hero, his teacher, and as his spiritual brother. He believes that Tim, by his example, is helping to evolve the role of funeral director into a healing profession and respects Tim’s gift to work “both sides of the veil”, providing “a quiet foundation for a soft landing.” Perhaps it is evidence of his respect for both life and death that Tim honors the deaths of people without family, including homeless people, with reverence and ritual.

To relieve the enormous stress that comes with his work, Tim and his wife Kelly and their daughter Miranda (who is currently living in Belgium through a college foreign exchange program) enjoy traveling to exotic locals like Cuba and Southeast Asia where Tim seeks out “overly colorful” restaurants, bars, music, dancing and authentic local experiences.

“I don’t do drugs at all. It makes it worse and creates more tension and stress. I’ve known several people in my line of work who have become alcoholics or committed suicide.”

Instead, Tim prefers scuba diving. “It’s the ultimate escapist experience. You become part of a liquid world. You realize how limited and narrow the scope of your vision is in this world. “

I asked Tim if he thinks scuba diving might feel a little like death.

“Yes… When I’m in a liquid world, it reinforces the idea that there are different forms of existence, that the spirit exists. Escapism is my salvation.”

 

Posted in Horsefly | 1 Response »

25 Things

Written by on February 26th, 2009

Dear Liam and Jack,

Here are two lists of 25 things that happened to come to mind about each of you, during one hour on one day in February, when you were six. I almost didn’t write this because I was afraid you would compete over the lists but sometimes it feels like you’ll be grown before I even manage to catch my breathe and I want to keep these lists like snapshots so I can always remember the way it felt to think about you during one hour on one day in February when you were six.

Love,
Mama

Liam

You couldn’t breathe when you were born and the doctors took you before I could see you and passed you through a little window into the neonatal intensive care unit so they could resuscitate you. I began deliriously struggling to get off of the operating table and the anesthesiologist shot me up with a drug that me pass out. I didn’t get to meet you for twenty four hours. When I did, you were still struggling to breathe. I will never get over this.

You have loved music since the first day you heard it. When you are happy, you sing.

You have always slept sideways across the bed. In utero, you were sideways and Jack was pointing head down.

Your first word was “Jack.” You began calling him “Jackie” soon afterwards.

When you were two, a donkey sucked your hand into his mouth while you were trying to feed it an apple. I don’t remember how we got it out.

Your favorite color is “golden,” not yellow, but shiny metallic golden.

You wear a midnight blue poncho with gold moon and star buttons every single night over your pajamas to bed.

The last toy you chose was a model of a bacteria cell.

Your named your hamsters Tiny and Kookookutie. You named a newborn black llama Sir Coconut Whitey.

You were going to be named Laila, until I realized with shock, terror and joy that you were one of two boys.

Your favorite book is The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.

You have the uncanny ability to hear your father use the “f” word from all the way across the house while you are watching a movie. He’s still working on giving that word up.

You adore your four year old neighbor, Oliver.

You call duct tape “goose tape.”

You are working on your “s” and “l” sounds in speech therapy.

You go to a Waldorf kindergarten and you have a crystal collection.

You like to organize things in containers and you are extremely observant.

After Jack spent a week in the hospital, you were tortured by terrifying nightmares. I am overwhelmed by your compassion, intuition, and empathy.

Still, when you are playing, you make loud explosion sounds and say to the bad guy, “I will kill your life!” You also say that to Jack sometimes.

You asked for a fondue pot for Valentine’s Day this year.

You are happiest in the bath, a pool, or the ocean. You love swimming and boogy-boarding.

You and Jack were one, and then the egg split. This means you share the same DNA, and most people can’t tell you apart, but you look a little more like your dad.

You want to grow a garden this summer. .

Your favorite outfit is a pair of cream colored corduroys with a yellow Addidas mock turtleneck shirt that has three white stripes down each sleeve.

You have made my life faster, brighter and deeper in a way I couldn’t have fathomed before you arrived. You are loved beyond measure. “Even more than the earth and the universe and everything in it?” you will ask. Yes, even more than that.

Jack

You weighed two pounds and fourteen ounces when you were born because your umbilical cord had been blocked by a cyst, but you had high apt-gar scores, a feisty cry, and a lot of attitude. I will never get over this.

When you were a baby, your height and weight didn’t even make the charts but your head circumference was in the 94th percentile.

You suffered from severe reflux and were in pain for much of your first year of life.

When you were two, you swallowed a jagged half of a plastic spoon. We were at the zoo in San Francisco and you were so surprised when a seagull swooped down and stole my corn dog that you bit down hard on the spoonful of yogurt you were eating and then swallowed the broken piece. Your dad and I raked through your diapers for days afterwards until your dad found it on day four. It was sharp as a dagger but you were fine.

Your first word was ball.

Your favorite color is green.

Your favorite story is The Sneetches by Dr. Seuss.

Shortly after your fifth birthday you were taken by ambulance from Taos to Albuquerque where you spent a week at UNM Children’s Hospital being treated for a virus that compromised your your gallbladder, your spleen and your liver. We slept together in a hospital bed for seven days. I was overcome by your courage and strength.

You have yet to sleep in your own bed entirely through the night.

If it were up to you, you would subsist entirely on chocolate milk and sushi. You also still really like three of the only foods I was able to tolerate while pregnant: watermelon juice, apple jolly ranchers and mint chocolate chip ice-cream.

You and Liam are inseparable, and you compete with each other over everything.

You have natural rhythm, and I love to watch you dance.

You are working on your “th” sound in speech therapy.

When you were recently given $20 to spend from Superbowl pool willings, you tried to buy the least expensive toy you could find so you would get “the most dollars back.”

Your favorite store is Wal-Mart.

You ask me questions about your future driver’s ed class at least three times a week.

You love skiing fast.

You slept with a little blue bird until last summer. I’ve paid hotel housekeepers to mail it back to us when we’ve left it behind.

You like to play cheetah cubs and husky puppies. You say, “I’m a husky puppy. Will you be my owner?”

You count and add just about everything, and yesterday you asked me to teach you how to read.

You appear shy at first but you have excellent comic timing.

At bed time, you often tell me that you want to live with us when you’re a grown-up and ask me how old I’ll be when I die.

Yesterday you asked me, “Who will die first, me or Liam?”

The last thing you always say before you fall asleep at night is, “I’m just going to pretend close my eyes.”

You have made my life faster, brighter, and deeper in a way I couldn’t have fathomed before you arrived. You are loved beyond measure. “Even more than the earth and the universe and everything in it?” you will ask. Yes, even more than that.

 

Posted in Jack and Liam | 2 Responses »

Old School

Written by Jennifer Hull on February 9th, 2009

Jack and Liam are skiing. After years of dragging them up to the mountain a few times every winter, carrying arm fulls of miniature boots and skis and mittens and hats and goggles, attempting to feign cheerfulness while coercing them up the magic carpet conveyor belt and down the hill, we couldn’t be more shocked. It seems like just yesterday that Liam would inevitably plop himself down in a pile of snow, refuse to move and wait for hot cocoa, while Jack would insist on skiing straight down and throw his body into a spinning hockey “stop” at the bottom.

This winter, however, on the very first day we took them skiing, they both figured out how to actually manage a proper stop, and with that, in one of the unexpected and astonishing learning explosions that seem to keep coming lately, they became skiers. In the few months since the miraculous appearance of their power wedges, they have taught themselves to turn well enough that we can ski with them on “green circles and blue squares” all over the mountain. They eagerly study the trail map as if it is a portal to another world and keep a running inventory of all conquered runs, with such menacing names as Honeysuckle, White Feather and Bambi. Not only are they skiing now, but they adore it and they beg us to do it, and we’re trying not to blow it by letting on just how happy it makes us when Jack asks, “Mama, how many days left until skiing?” or when Liam asks “How old do you have to be to ski Kachina Peak, Dad?”

I suppose we could have forced ski school upon them, and Taos Ski Valley’s ski school is renowned as one of the best, but a frigid day and an unfortunate bathroom incident turned Jack and Liam off from it permanently. Besides, Oban and I met while teaching skiing, so we know what can happen there. Oban once lost one of his young students in a half frozen river next to the return trail, and did not notice until returning to the base. (I’m sure this is what must have made me realize he was almost ready for fatherhood.) Luckily, someone else did notice and she was rescued by the ski patrol before he realized where he’d lost her.

Back in those single days, Oban and I listened to Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall album every time we drove to the ski valley in his 1988 Jeep Grand Wagoneer. “That’s what you call old school!” I tell Jack and Liam (borrowing a line from Obama) who demand to listen to Justin Timberlake for the drive up, particularly the song they call Flashing Lights. It makes me feel strangely content to hear Jack sweetly singing from the back seat: “She looks like a model, except she’s got a little more ass…”

And we are proudly relishing every moment of skiing like a family of ducks, with Oban in the front and me in the back, trying to protect our singing, skiing children from all those pesky grown-ups lumbering down the slopes with boards strapped to their feet, aware that there is only a brief window of time before Jack and Liam realize what big dorks they have for parents, and want to ski only with their friends. For now, they’re stuck with us, skiing to the Bavarian Lodge for hot cocoa and chicken schnitzel and dancing as DJ Little Will mixes our favorite music; Prince, Beastie Boys and if we’re lucky, Michael Jackson.

 

Posted in Jack and Liam, Parenthood | No Responses »

« Older Entries